


Between You and Me

by EnvyBakemono



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Post-Movie(s), Science Fiction, Slow Burn, Transhumanism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2018-09-21 15:24:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 20,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9554918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnvyBakemono/pseuds/EnvyBakemono
Summary: "Well, I didn't ask to get made! I didn't ask to be torn apart and put back together over and over and turned into some little monster!""Neither did I." But she never said it, and instead it simmers between them, a shared experience they haven't spoken about, a resentment that doesn't get vocalized... until Rocket tries to fix it, and there's no ignoring it anymore.





	1. I Don't Feel Right

**Author's Note:**

> This was a commission that I ended up enjoying even more than I thought I would! Nitrowhale, this is for you, with a little bit of rage that you dragged me into rarepair hell. Grar.
> 
> Word of warning, this is gonna go some dark places - and there will be some smut in later chapters, but it's not the focus. Also, I love Peter, but I super do not ship him and Gamora. At all.
> 
> TW: surgical modification (non-consensual, referenced), suicidal ideation/planning, severe self-hate issues

**Chapter One**

**I Don’t Feel Right**

                Clouds of interstellar dust drifted over the cockpit of the Milano, and Gamora stared up into the endless bounds of space, thinking about home. It was a difficult concept, full of thorns and unexpectedly harsh memories –

                - _fire and blood and Mother’s not breathing –_

\- and decades later, the only image she could recall of the planet she’d spent her childhood on was a barn, and three moons spinning above, reflecting the light of the red sun.

                …Her nose crinkled. Distant dreams couldn’t compare with the sudden, pungent smell of dirty socks. “…Quill.”

                To her horror and resignation, there was a reply from him, accompanied with the sound of the trapdoor closing. “Yes?” he whispered back.

                “Put your shoes on.”

                “I can’t!” he whispered frantically. “Shoes make noise!”

                She sighed, and turned in the pilot’s chair. He was lying flat on the floor. “Who are you hiding from?” she asked, wondering all the while if she should _really_ be encouraging whatever bizarre game Peter was up to. It was like babysitting a ship full of destructive, gun-wielding toddlers.

                “Who do you _think?_ ”

                “ _Probably_ not the twig in the terracotta pot.”

                “The raccoon has it out for me!” Peter hissed.

                “Rocket. You’re hiding from Rocket,” she deadpanned.

                He nodded.

                “And you took off your shoes.” The smell was getting _stronger._ She resisted the urge to block her nose. “Because they’re loud.”

                “Yeah! It’s good tactical sense.”

                “…I’m not responsible for whatever happens to you.” She spun back to face out the window, closing her eyes and humming, trying to ignore the rancid odor of his unwashed socks. She didn’t want to think about how _long_ they’d been on his… Okay, too late, now she was.

                A few seconds later, the trapdoor burst open again. “There you are, you lying, thieving, son-of-a-bitch!”

                “H- _hey!_ How’d you find me so fast!”

                “You stink like a fuckin’ _sulfur mine,_ Quill. I followed my nose. Now are you payin’ up, or what?”

                Gamora felt the urge to break things – or _people ­_ – rise in her again. “You two made another _bet?_ You don’t have any money!”

                “He told me he did this time!”

                “And why would you trust Peter Quill about anything _money-related?_ ”

                Rocket didn’t have an answer for that – but Peter did. “ _He_ told me it was a friendly bet!”

                “Yeah! Friendly! That means I tear off your fingers instead of your throat, you miserable coward!”

                Gamora pushed her hand over her eyes as she gave another deep, frustrated sigh. “Peter, pay him back.”

                “With _what?_ ”

                “I don’t know! Figure it out!” she snapped. She hadn’t meant it to sound so nasty, and she saw the expression of surprise flicker over Peter’s face, before he snuffed it out with a cheeky grin.

                “Okay, okay.” He propped his head up on his elbows, giving Rocket a searching glance. “I’ll give you –“

                Rocket cut him off. “I want your helmet.”

                “My _what?!_ ”

                “You heard me. It’s cool. I want it.”

                “You can’t have that! I need it!”

                Gamora sighed, resting her elbow on the arm of the pilot’s chair. “Do you have any other ideas?”

                “It was a _friendly bet –“_ Peter cut himself off at that. Rocket was baring his teeth at him, and the tiny, half-grown Groot in his paws was mimicking the expression.

                “Rocket, you can borrow it,” grumbled Gamora.

                With the groan of the long-suffering, Peter pulled the helmet device from behind his ear, and tossed it at Rocket. “Here you go,” he said with a pained expression. “I want it back in a _week,_ okay? Sooner if there’s an emergency!”

                “Yeah, yeah, sure.” Rocket tucked it behind his ear then grinned up at Gamora. “How does it look?”

                She ignored him. She’d been dragged into this _quite_ enough for one day.

                Peter huffed, hopping up from his position on the ground and brushing off his clothes with wounded pride. “I’m going to go play with my Walkman.”

                “Yeah, _that’s_ what you call it,” Rocket sneered.

                “What do _you_ call it, you little hairball?”

                Rocket ignored that last comment, and Peter was about to say something else, but seemed to think better of it as he strolled away. _Good,_ Gamora thought with a little bit more vitriol than she’d expected. Peter was the only one stupid enough to not have realized just _how_ much stupid comments like that affected Rocket. Perhaps it was something to do with him being human – he couldn’t read the way Rocket’s face flinched every time.

                The moment Peter was gone, though, Rocket turned to her, fur bristling. “What are you doing?”

                She blinked. A nebula passed overhead, changing the light in the room, and she was briefly distracted by the look of stardust in his fur – “Hm?”

                “I don’t need you to – to – _intervene_!”

                She blinked. “…What?”

                “I can take care of Peter fucking Quill just fine, miss priss.”

                “Um.” She couldn’t quite muster a better response. Groot was looking up at Rocket with a rather disappointed expression, and she tried not to stare at the small tree. Rocket noticed anyway, and growled lowly.

                “Just don’t do it again. Got it?” He turned to leave – she got to her feet, a surge of anger flashing through her. A thousand questions, or accusations, or whatever they were, crowded into her mouth – do _what,_ Rocket, stop you from killing Peter – but none of them made of them. So, standing there like some fool with nothing to say, she watched Rocket walk away, tip of his tail vanishing down into the belly of the Milano.

                _I don’t feel right._

She sat down once more, or perhaps the word was _collapsed._ She was breathing too hard. Closing her eyes, she mentally reached for each of her implants, finding where they rooted into her flesh under her skin, and braced her hands on her knees.

                _Heart rate?_ She asked.

                _120,_ replied the chip network resting just below the skin on her neck.

                _Cause?_

There was no response. Clearly a pulse meter wasn’t up to the task. She wasn’t sure why she’d expected it to be – it was the simplest piece of technology in her entire body, after all.

                She switched her focus to the chip lower down, sitting underneath her collarbone. _Full diagnostics._

_Heart rate 120. Blood pressure 141/90. Tense musculature. Constricted breathing._

_Cause?_

She waited – and after a few minutes, wondered if she’d asked too much of her systems at last. Then, finally, the answer came. _Fear._

She felt herself deflate. _That_ made no sense. She got scared, sure. Her emotions had been stripped, but they hadn’t been _removed,_ just… dialed down. Her reaction to Thanos’s promise to Ronan had been proof of that. But being afraid of another destroyed planet, or an Infinity Stone, made far, _far_ more sense than the sudden jolt of fear that had run through her, listening to Rocket.

                _Are you sure you didn’t make a mistake?_ She asked the diagnostic system. No response. It wasn’t equipped for that kind of question. Of course.

                Gamora got to her feet, noticing with irritation that she was still shaking. _Why?_

                Her implants were quiet again. _Useless things,_ she thought, not for the first or the last time. They might have saved her life, but they couldn’t tell her anything _important._ Like why she kept feeling like she’d done something wrong.

* * *

                They’d landed planetside about an hour ago, and Rocket kicked his feet back and forth off the wing of the Milano, Groot in his lap. The little guy would be ready to get out of his pot soon – Rocket could feel it cracking around the bottom from his roots already – but Rocket quietly hoped he’d stay in there a little longer. Tiny Groot walking around meant it would be that much easier for him to get hurt again. And Groot was an idiot, so it was more likely to happen that not.

                Well, at least this was a _nice_ planet. They’d landed outside the nearest town at night, so there’d been none of that “Welcome to the Xandarian Empire!” bullshit that they liked to throw at you at the frontiers. It was like they thought nobody went back and forth. Hell, Rocket thought they’d heard it on the Milano at least 5 times in the last month. The last time, Drax had yelled at them and the Milano had been impounded until Peter had managed to call up Nova Prime –

                “I am Groot?”

                “What? Nah, mind was wandering.” Rocket glanced back down to Groot for a moment, offered him a smile, and then his eyes were drawn back up to the sprawling city. Mostly slums, really. They were here for the market, where their contacts said you could buy or sell _anything._

                _That_ made him think of the Collector. A shudder ran down Rocket’s spine at that. He didn’t want to think about that creepy bastard, or all the various different things he’d seen in those cubes –

                _Market. You were thinking about the market._

That was right. They had things to unload, things that weren’t… _illegal_ per se but were subject to all sorts of different considerations inside the Xandarian Empire proper. Fireworks, for one. Rocket chuckled to himself. Those had been _fun_ to make.

                (Peter’d seen them before – it had been his idea – and Drax just liked the explosions. But the look on Gamora’s face – first the flash of vigilance at the sound, and then the dawning wonder on her features as they spread across the sky of the empty moon with splashes of blue and spatters of green and sprays of yellow –)

                Rocket tried to drag his mind back to whatever he’d been thinking about. He couldn’t stay on a subject for more than a few seconds at a time, it seemed, unless it had to do with explosives or guns. Those he could think about for hours at a time.

                _Gamora._

Why did he care so much what _she_ thought? She walked around like she owned the place, flaunting her implants like they were something to be proud of. It made his spine prickle, made the wires and receivers and chunks of metal in his head and nervous system ache just to think about.

                _So don’t think about it._

They were at the market to sell fireworks. Nova Prime didn’t directly disapprove of fireworks. She just found them dangerous in the wrong hands. Well, there were plenty of wrong hands here. Maybe they’d end up leaving the market on fire. (Not really. Peter had been very clear with Rocket to make them as safe as possible. Rocket had made it so that they extinguished on contact with carbon. He’d been pretty proud of himself.)

                “Hey.”

                _Speak of the devil,_ Rocket grumbled to himself. “What do you want, Quill?”

                Peter shuffled awkwardly, hands in his pockets. “…We’re unloading. Come help?”

                Rocket suppressed a sigh. Quill was edging around him again. _Say what you -_ “Say what you mean, idiot,” …and he bit down on his tongue, suppressing a scream. He couldn’t think something without _saying_ it. Every single damn time.

                “I’m sorry I called you a hairball.”

                “Yeah, yeah. Shove off. I’ll be there in a sec.”

                Peter grinned, gave Rocket a little mock salute, then started walking off again.

                “I am Groot?” Groot murmured quietly.

                Rocket glared down at the plant sitting demurely in his lap. “Shut up.”

                The apology hadn’t really made him feel better. Kind of? Sort of? He didn’t _not_ appreciate it. But it just kind of rubbed it in more that it didn’t matter what he did, people _saw_ him first.

                “It’d be better if –“ By sheer force of will, he managed to shut his trap. He ignored the concerned look from Groot. Fully-grown Groot would have been able to guess where his thoughts were going – but baby Groot, still reforming, still redeveloping his keen mind from a single cell, was reduced to guesswork.

                There’d be somebody at the market with the skillset he needed. There always _was._

The thoughts kept whizzing around his head, around and around and around. _It’d be better if I couldn’t understand why they looked down at me. It’d be better if I wasn’t so smart. It’d be better if I was as dumb as everybody wanted me to be._

The part of him who had built the fireworks, whose paws were gripping the ceramic pot with poorly-concealed fear, knew it was stupid. More than stupid – it was dangerous. But it wouldn’t let go, and it was seductive and beautiful and tempting.

                Groot probably could have talked him out of it.

                Gamora’s condescending, bored face flashed across his visual centers. He flinched. One of his implants was acting up. They liked doing that when his emotions were acting up – dragging up recent memories and making them more vivid, pushing them through funhouse mirrors until he couldn’t recall quite _what_ had happened.

                He didn’t _want_ to be talked out of it. So he kept his mouth shut, plastered a smile on (nerves spiking as he did – he wasn’t built to fake his emotions or to keep them hidden) and went to help Peter unload the Milano, trying not to approach everything with an air of finality.

 


	2. You Don't Look Good

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: jealousy/paranoia/other mental health stuff, abuse referenced

**Chapter Two**

**You Don’t Look Good**

                Something was wrong with Rocket. Her implants were telling her so, and even without them, she could see the difference in him. The worst part was that she had the sinking sense that it was her fault.

                They’d unloaded their wares from the Milano – fireworks, medicines, exotic fruits, clothing, all bordering the line between legal and illegal – and Peter and Drax had gone ahead with the (whatchacallit). Peter had offered Rocket a ride, but Rocket had just shook his head, murmuring a ‘no’.

                That had only been the first sign.

                Now, Gamora was staring at him as he trudged ahead, trying to figure out what to think. She’d had to turn down her implants – she couldn’t mute them completely – with the amount of screaming they were doing. The moment Rocket had come within two feet of her, they’d switched into high alert, warning her of danger…and then refusing to specify it. They hadn’t found any weapons aside from ones she already knew about. Rocket’s adrenaline had spiked, but his focus wasn’t on her. His blood pressure was high, but his serotonin was low, and no matter how she looked at it, she couldn’t think of a reason for Rocket to attack her.

Sheer capriciousness, maybe. She wouldn’t quite put _that_ past him.

                But aside from _that._

_-dangerdangerdanger-_

“Rocket,” she said finally. It was almost a question, but her pride wouldn’t quite let her phrase it as a plea.

                He didn’t turn.

                _“Rocket._ ”

                “What?” he snapped, barely turning his head as he walked.

                “What’s wrong?”

                “What’s wrong?” he mocked back in a quavering imitation of her voice.

                _I’m going to throw him into a tree,_ she thought grimly. “It was just a question.”

                “Just a question,” he repeated again, with a distinctively sour tone to his voice.

                She sighed. She wasn’t going to play into his petty games. “Is this about this morning? Because I was _trying_ to help.”

                “I don’t _need_ your help.”

                She could practically hear the scare quotes around “help”. “I wasn’t helping _you._ ”

                He slowed down, ear twitching. “What?”

                “I was trying to make sure you didn’t decide to, I don’t know, take Peter’s Walkman as payment. Or a pound of his flesh. Your sense of humour needs work sometimes.”

                “Oh, so you’re protecting _him._ The oh-so-special _hubby._ ” Despite the bitterness in his voice, Gamora was dimly aware of her alarms quietly relaxing. Then what he’d said processed –

                “You’re _joking._ ”

                “He’s been trying to mack on you for months!”

                “I’ve hardly been _encouraging_ him – oh, _Rocket –_ “ She threw up her hands in consternation, unable to stop a laugh from bubbling up. The moment it did, though, she saw him stiffen again, and her alarms returned to maximum alert.

                “Stop laughing at me,” he growled.

                “I’m not laughing at you.”

                “You _are._ ”

                “Rocket –“

                “Let’s just get there.” He walked off, and Gamora stared after him, trying – once again – to unravel what she’d done wrong.

                _Heart rate 120. Blood pressure 141/90. Tense musculature. Constricted breathing._

 _Cause?_ she asked, expecting the same answer. She was still surprised when it came.

                _Fear._

_Why?_

_Of potential outcomes._

That was more than she’d gotten before. Still, it didn’t give her any idea of what to _do,_ or any sort of solid answer. Instead, she stood there, planting her feet firmly on the ground and trying to balance herself and calm her shaking nerves while Rocket disappeared over the horizon. A few moments later, she was alone.

                _Alone._

The fear came up all at once then, coming up in her throat in waves of sudden nausea. Her dimmed implants were struggling to contain it, to regulate her emotions like they were programmed to do, but they’d never been turned so low before – _Thanos always forbade it, he found out Nebula had done it and he punished her, Nebula my sister –_ and suddenly she was drowning, drowning, _drowning –_

_-please don’t leave I want to go home I want to go home –_

She had the sense of mind to reach out to her implants and turn them back up, just enough to make the tight sensation in her chest fade. There was still the lingering sting of panic, but she could breathe. _Breathe. Breathe._

_Heart rate 110. Heart rate 100. Heart rate 99. Heart rate 98._

She stood up and followed Rocket over the horizon. The alarms were still ringing, but she ignored them – or at least, she tried.

\----

                The Plash Market was louder than he’d expected, and busier. On every side, people were shouting and advertising their wares – plants from Kree colonies, dresses spun from silk and woven with fibersteel netting, weapons with their registrations lost and their safety features unlocked, ship parts, rocket launchers, body paint, maps of the galaxy –

                “Only available _today!_ Come, feast your eyes, upon the very toenail of the most dangerous Kree who ever lived –“

                Rocket rolled his eyes. And the cranks. Couldn’t have a market without cranks.

                “It’d _have_ to be a toenail,” murmured Peter with a smirk. “We didn’t leave anything else of him.” He glanced up at Gamora, and the smirk vanished. “You doing okay?”

                Rocket ignored whatever else might have occurred, and busied himself with scanning the market for a sign of what _he_ wanted.

                “This place is abhorrent,” Drax grumbled.

                “Don’t worry, Drax, you’ll get used to it. Besides, we already have people interested. See? They’re coming over now. Rocket?”

                Rocket didn’t respond, and then Peter tapped him on the shoulder – “ _What?_ ”

                “The fireworks. They’re all good, right?”

                “Of _course_ they’re good. We tested ‘em.”

                Peter was giving him a look that was _far_ too concerned for his taste. Rocket bit down on his tongue to stop himself from telling Quill to shove off. “I’m gonna go look around. I need stuff.”

                “Don’t you wanna –“

                “I make ‘em, you sell ‘em. Right?”

                “…I _guess?_ ”

                “I am Groot,” Groot murmured sadly from the plank stall-top where Rocket had set him. For a moment, Rocket doubted himself. Well, that wasn’t quite accurate. He was always doubting himself. But his actions – those he rarely wasted time on doubting. But Groot –

                Ah, Groot would be fine. He’d grow. And the others would take care of him. Besides, it’s not like he was committing _suicide._ He’d just be a bit stupider and a little easier to deal with.

                “I’ll be back later, big guy.”

                “I am Groot!”

                Rocket pretended not to hear that. Groot didn’t _really_ understand. Nobody did.

\---

                It only took Gamora five minutes of attempting to sell their wares to decide that markets were really, _really_ not her thing. “Are you sure I can’t kill anyone, Quill?” she seethed after she caught the edge of another derisive look. “I don’t know why they keep looking at me like that.”

                Peter shrugged. “Maybe it’s the green skin?”

                “Don’t be so thick. The green skin is only strange for _you,_ Earth-boy.” She set her elbows on the counter and rested her chin in her hands, letting her implants passively feed her information.

_No weapons, midrange height, 3% musculature – low risk._

_Two concealed weapons, high adrenaline, 25% musculature – medium risk_

_Single concealed multitool, religious symbol on clothing – risk unknown risk unknown risk unknown_

Gamora’s eyes slid back into focus, and she caught the religious symbol around the person’s neck, snapping a picture for reference. “Quill, is there a network on this planet?”

“Yeah, one for the city. It’s a black net though, so careful connecting with it.”

“I know how to navigate blacknets, Peter,” she replied with a small smile. It had been a while since she’d had to – terminals were easier to use and less dangerous – but that symbol was bothering her. _A broken gear over a plant… what does that mean?_

She closed her eyes, and probed. The black behind her eyes filled with green light, and then came the transmission. _Access?_

_Guest, temporary, search._

_Denied._

Something else was wrong. Something else wasn’t processing.

 _Guest, temporary, search –_ and she added a bit of brute force to it.

_Denied. Bio-connect detected._

Gamora frowned. Bio-connect? They didn’t let cyborgs –

Oh.

“Peter,” she asked quietly but firmly. “Have you seen any other cyborgs while we’ve been here?”

He blinked. “Like, _full_ cyborgs or just implants?”

“I’m not sure it makes a difference.” Gamora turned to Drax. “Drax, what about you?”

He shook his head slowly. “I have not seen any cybernetic enhancements, either worn or for sale. It seems odd.”

“Peter, run a search for the religion on this planet.”

“But –“

“ _Now!_ ” Something else was missing – something else was not right –

_Rocket._

“Where’s Rocket?” She forced away the panic, turning up her implants a little more.

Peter and Drax glanced at each other and shrugged. “He said he was gonna take a look around,” Peter added.

“You _idiots!_ ”

“Hey, wait –“

She leapt over the counter and scanned the marketplace, heart in her throat. If _she_ was getting dirty looks for the circuits sparking in her face –

_Please be okay._

 


	3. Catching Glances

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: suicide, disorganized thoughts, sensory overload, violence

**Chapter Three**

**Catching Glances**

He hated being short. No, that wasn’t strong enough. Rocket truly, completely, utterly _despised_ being short. If ‘being short’ was something he could stab, he would have stabbed it. Or blown it up.

                …He missed Groot being tall.

                Rocket gritted his teeth as he ducked yet another swinging elbow. _I’ll bite the next person to shove me._ He hadn’t missed the dirty looks, either.

                He ducked another elbow, and pressed himself against a stall with a snarl. _I hate people._

                “Well, well. We don’t see your kind here much,” rasped a voice from above him. He looked up. A wrinkled face smiled down at him.

                “… _What_ kind?” he grumbled.

                The old woman laughed. She was the rosy pink of a native Xandarian, but the scar below her eye had healed into a puckered, diseased-looking off-white. The eye itself was covered with a metal patch, but Rocket felt his implants reacting to the remains of whatever cybernetic enhancement had lain below, a tingle of static electricity running down his spine. “You’re a bionic, aren’t you?”

                Rocket narrowed his eyes. “What’s _your_ business with it?” He paused. “And I ain’t nothin’ but _me._ ”

                “What are you looking for? I might have it for you.” She disappeared back behind the stall, and Rocket rounded the corner behind the counter.

                “Whatcha _got?_ ” He didn’t like her. Or rather, his _implants_ didn’t like her. He wasn’t sure which he trusted less.

                She looked down at him. “You’re an offworlder.”

                “Uh, yeah. Was it obvious?”

                She just smiled. “I buy and sell implants. I see you’ve got a nice collection of them. Any you’re willing to part with?”

                Rocket swallowed and nodded, heart suddenly racing. _This is stupid this is stupid THIS IS STUPID –_

“All of them. Just take them out.”

                The old woman blinked, then smiled even more widely. “A convert. Wonderful. There is always room for repentance in the heart of the First Earth.”

                That didn’t sound right. Rocket’s eyes flickered down to the symbol on her chest – a broken gear with a green embroidered shoot in the middle. _Repentance. Dunno what I’m repenting for, but I want it gone._

“Sure. Sounds good.” He managed to force a smile onto his snout – and then the pulse hit him, and everything went black.

\---

                ” _Gamora! What’s going on?”_

She sighed into the earpiece, still desperately scanning the marketplace. “They’re Neo-Luddites, Quill. Anti-implant, biopurity, ‘the body is a temple’ cranks.”

                _“Well, we don’t have to stay for long –_ “

                “Rocket is _missing_ on a Neo-Luddite planet, Quill. Make your own conclusion.”

                “…Oh. Oh _shit._ Shit, Gamora, can you find him?”

                She shut her eyes and turned her implants up. _Danger! Danger! Danger!_

 _I know there’s_ danger, _you stupid AIs. Find Rocket._

He wasn’t within range, but they tried anyway, silvery fingers reaching out and pinging off the planet’s surface. She was a raging beacon to any other cyborg, now, but that was _good,_ that meant if Rocket was anywhere nearby –

                _“Gamora, wait, I’m coming to you. You’re trying to ping him, right?_ ”

                She blinked in surprise, and felt all her overlaid AIs do it too, turned up so high that she could feel them overlaying her whole body and just a little to the left. She never had them up to full – she didn’t like feeling like this. “Yeah,” she said, lips tingling. It was only going to get worse. Sensing too much physically was almost as bad as feeling too much emotionally.

                Suddenly Peter was next to her in the crowd. She could read the heartbeat in his chest, fast and concerned, blood flushing in his cheeks, concern concern concern _excitement_ adrenaline – “This is a booster. You can increase your ping range for a few minutes with it but you gotta shut down the other systems to do it.”

                “No problem.”

                “I’ll make sure you’re safe, okay?”

                Whydoyouknowabout- (wordstoofastthoughtstoofast) – “How do you -?”

                “Yondu’s a borg, remember? He hates these things, though. Careful, apparently there’s a nasty aftertaste.”

                _I’m already overloading this is going to hurt –_

                _Information sensors at 98% physical sensors at 98% emotional sensors at 10%_

blue pill in his hand she took it and swallowed it and everything was so _bright_ –

                “gamora are you okay” voice modulation high somewhat strangled Peter Quill age 32 measured in Terran years the rotations of that orbit are equivalent to 2.4 rotations of this solar system

                “get that borg out of here” analysis: anger, irritation, panic, varying degrees impossible to analyze. Source: furrowed eyebrows, dark green skin, tattoo on forehead, broken gear with plant meaning: Neo-Luddite/bio-purity, approaching: _danger danger danger_

 _GUNSHOT_ danger danger danger source?query grey skin identify identify identify: Drax

                _Danger?_ Query: negative, neutralized but notsafe

                Hand over eyes DANGER –

                “Gamora, close your eyes. Close your eyes!” Hand on her waist, it didn’t bother her, and she released a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding –

                _Rocket? Search:query:_

Behind the blackness of her lids, there was…nothing. Usually she could see other cybers like white glows, but there was nobody else here. A curious emptiness in her chest. Later. She would feel the emotion later.

                Search:query:cybernetics, implants, _anything_

Reach, reach, reach, _reach._ Just a little further. And then she found him, a little light, quivering, the sounds of his implants… wrong. They’d never quite sounded right, but now they were distorting even more –

                “I found him,” she managed to push out through her numb lips.

                “Good. He’s close?”

                Adrenaline. Too much. “I’ll go.” The booster was beginning to wear off, and she turned down her implants just enough to take her down from the computer-high. “Stay. I can do it.”

                “Are you sure?”

                “Take care of Groot. And business.”

                She opened her eyes. Everything was still so bright. People, watching from the sidelines, faces filled with fear, looking on as bystanders unable to tear their eyes away. She cherished their eyes on her, felt their gazes trace the cybernetics visible on her face, twisted her arms outwards so they could see the wires under her skin – and then she burst into a run, tearing through the crowd as her muscles spun into high gear, blood pulsing, heart racing and firing to the electrical impulses of her modified brain.

 _Let_ them stare. She had other things to worry about.

 


	4. Taking Chances

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: suicidal ideation, blood, nonconsensual surgery

                Rocket didn’t wake up. He just drifted.

                But he could feel it. Somebody was touching him. He didn’t let people touch him. _Stop it,_ he tried to say, but his jaw wouldn’t move. They’d muzzled him.

                _Angry. I should be angry._ Instead, all he could feel was shame. _It’s not your fault,_ came a thought that wasn’t his, and he knew that was Groot speaking, but he couldn’t believe that. He’d come seeking it out. Of course he was muzzled. What had he fucking _expected?_

He opened his eyes to a starscape, purple and black and shining points glimmering, far away. The view from the first ship, the ship that had taken him away from the lab. He’d been in a glass box, but he’d been able to watch space pass in all its glory. He remembered that.

                And then the pain tore through it, and Rocket remembered that too, but then he was too busy screaming into the muzzle, and crying too, because he was stupid, he was _so stupid –_

_-I wanted this I wanted this-_

_-I wish I was dead-_

_-I want to be dead-_

_-im sorry-_

* * *

                Gamora brought her knife to the old woman’s neck, trying not to look down. “Don’t. Move.” Her implants told her all she needed to know, anyway. The woman had a scalpel perilously close to Rocket’s spine, and at least two of the several implants branching off of it had been yanked out, wires tangled and bloody. They sent distorted messages out to her, cries for help that cut out and twisted and inverted into themselves.

                “What do you want?” hissed the woman.

                “That’s my friend.” Gamora kept her eyes on the woman, her implants measuring the distance between the scalpel and Rocket’s central nervous system.

                “The creature is nobody’s friend.”

                “Call him a creature one more time. I dare you.”

                The old woman’s lips curled into a sneer, skin pulling and distorting around the metal patch fused to her eye. “ _Creature –“_

Gamora jerked her arm forward, and a crescent of crimson blood fountained out, then slowed to a stream of blood down her hand, red on her green skin. The woman’s hand twitched, and Gamora’s other arm flashed out, grabbing her wrist and yanking it up before it could cut into Rocket’s nerves any more than it already had. The Neo-Luddite collapsed to the ground, and Gamora gave her a kick in the ribs for good measure, even though she was already dead.

                She turned her attention to Rocket -

                _Heartbeat 250 beats a minute._

_Blood flow increased._

_Pain response detected._

“Imagine,” she muttered bitterly, then stood over him, trying to assess the damage. She’d never gotten a close look at Rocket’s implants before. There were eight of them lining his spine, and another two inset into the back of his neck – the fur had managed to grow again around them. The woman had only made it to the lowest two.

                She brushed her fingers over them, lightly as a feather – and recoiled as Rocket’s body went taut, even under the anaesthetic. That wasn’t _right._ That –

                Gamora lifted her other hand to his head, and stroked the fur there as gently as she dared. Her sense of touch was so numb that she had to trust her sense of space and her eyesight. He didn’t flinch this time. It was his implants – his nervous system.

                _What did she do to you?_

Of course, it wasn’t that simple. She was only now starting to realize that. There was more going on inside than she could even fathom. Rocket’s entire _being_ was an experiment. His speech. His cognitive function.

                There was nothing else in the world like him.

                “I don’t…” She scanned his back again, but her implants gave her nothing. The exposed wires suggested nothing, and a lump rose in her throat, unbidden, unwanted, too powerful even for her cybernetics to suppress.

                She didn’t know how to fix it.

* * *

                The pain wasn’t gone, but after long enough, it became a backdrop, hardly more noticeable than the bristling of his fur or the heavy weight of memory in the back of his mind. He could deal with that. He dealt with pain all the time.

                The starscape was still passing by, agonizingly slowly, but the glass cage he distantly remembered was gone. The iron skeleton of it was there, but – he reached his paw out – there was nothing between the struts. He stepped out of it.

                “I am Groot.”

                His friend stood in front of him. Rocket smiled up at him. Groot wasn’t full-size yet. This was about how old Groot had been when they’d met – four or five feet high, a little bit brash, still a teenager by the rules of his race.

                “I’m dead, aren’t I?”

                “I am Groot.” _Not yet. You certainly tried._

                Rocket chuckled awkwardly, scratching your head. “Yeah, yeah. Save the lecture for later when I’m awake and you can thwap me with your twigs properly.”

                Groot just smiled down at him.

                He sighed. “I’m sorry.” He probably wouldn’t quite manage to say it out loud, to the real Groot, but inside his own head, he could manage a little humility. “This isn’t…what I wanted.”

                “I am Groot.” _What did you want?_

Rocket sat down and stared out at the starscape. Nebulas and galaxies, passing by, the same ones he’d been remembering and staring at for years. The view from the escape from captivity. “Good question.”

                It would have been so easy if he _could_ answer with “I want to die”. The easy answer. The easy way out.

                His paws tightened on his knees.

                He wasn’t sure how much time had passed before he realized that Groot was gone. He’d expected that. He always felt alone.

                Except this time, he wasn’t.

                Rocket turned his head with an exhausted snarl. “I don’t want you here.”

                The figure who had stepped out of the darkness raised her hands in a gesture of peace. Like he believed _that._ “Rocket –“

                “ _Leave._ ”

                He’d had enough of her torturing him. Enough of those half-smiles he couldn’t read, enough of those fumbling conversations where she’d be a little too sharp, a little too on edge, and he’d be ready – and she’d say something else entirely.

                The silence drew out, and he stared out at the empty sky.

                “Why here?” she asked.

                He sighed, but she didn’t show any sign of leaving. At least she was keeping a respectful distance behind him. “Months of staring at the same skyscape burns it into your brain. An’ I’ve never stayed anywhere else long enough.”

                “Months?” She stepped out to stand beside him, her black legs long and slender and far, far too tall.  “But there’s nothing _here._ Why would you stay out here for that long?” She glanced up and around at the ship. “This isn’t a station, is it?”

                If this was dying, Rocket had been _massively_ oversold on the whole thing. He wished – well, he wished for a lot of things. Mostly booze. Booze’d be nice.

                He raised his paw. “See that?”

                Gamora cocked her head. “It’s just empty space.”

                “Exactly. See all the debris?” He dropped his paw. “That was a planet. Not a big ‘un. Big enough for experiments. They fiddled around with us and then let us run around so they could take measurements.”

                “That sounds…” She paused.

                _Awful? Terrible? Oh-so-tragic?_ he supplied, rolling his eyes slightly. His hallucinations were always so _predictable –_

“…familiar,” she said with a quiet half-smile.

                He froze up. Like it had never left – and it hadn’t really – the pain came back, waves crashing into him until he couldn’t think of anything else except how much it _hurt,_ and he didn’t _want_ that, he wanted to stay here until everything just stopped, he wanted it to _stop –_

“Rocket!”

                “You’re not supposed to be here,” he mumbled, and her green hands were on his arms, and he could _feel_ it. He wasn’t supposed to. He didn’t _feel_ things here. That was the _point._ “You’re not –“

                Nothing made sense.

                “Rocket, look at me.” She grabbed his chin, and even though he wasn’t really _seeing_ her, he looked into her dark, criss-crossed eyes and wondered how she’d gotten here. Was she dying too? Was she -?

                “Rocket, I need you to show me something.”

                “Show you _what?_ How –“

                “Rocket, I’m hooked into your implants. We’re connected.”

                That – almost made sense. But –

                A low growl started building in his throat. “Leave me _alone._ ”

                “I can’t _do_ that,” she replied calmly.

                “Don’t talk down to me. You can do whatever you want.”

                “Right now that involves you not dying. Rocket –“

                He curled his paw into a fist, and drove it into her solar plexus. In the real world, she still would have felt it – in here, it sent her flying across the room, crashing against the wall and onto the floor. “Back. _Off,_ ” he snarled.

* * *

                Gamora’s eyes snapped back open, and she lurched backwards, collapsing down into the chair. She resisted the urge to yank the wire out of her temple – that would just hurt both of them. Instead, she tried to calm her breathing. Her implants were blessedly quiet, focused on maintaining the connection between her and Rocket.

                _Why won’t he listen to me?_

She took a deep breath, felt her lungs expand within her chest, and reviewed the conversation – sparing as it had been – that they’d had so far.

                Gamora closed her eyes, and ignoring the warning of her cybernetics, tried a new approach.

                Rocket didn’t trust her. She could change that. Or at least, she could try.


	5. If You're A Mess Then I'm One Too

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: parental abuse, surgical torture, non-consensual surgery, animal experimentation

                The starscape took its time disappearing, and Rocket watched the stars wink out with a black, resigned fear that grew and withered and coiled in his chest, over and over and over again. He was panicking, of _course._ He didn’t want to die, of _course._

He was just… tired.

                He closed his eyes, but instead of the darkness he expected, he was suddenly drowned in light. Gamora’s voice cut through the white with her usual sharpness. "Rocket." Just his name, nothing else.

                 Maybe if he pretended he couldn't hear her –

                "I can hit you back if that'll make you stop ignoring me."

                "Yeah, yeah," he grumbled, blinking his eyes open. "Are you done intimidating m-" He stopped.

                 Gamora snorted, folding her black legs in the chair next to him. "Impressive, isn't it?"

                "I detect sarcasm."

                They were standing in a white hall, bigger and emptier than he could have possibly imagined. The marble overhead soared so high it looked like a sky, and he could see images dancing in it. Stars mingled with closeups of splitting atoms; scenes of death of all kinds intruded. Plague, war, murder, suicide. Below his feet, the tiled floor sparked with electricity. He jumped back, but Gamora shook her head.

              "It's not dangerous. This is just a memory."

              "A memory of _what?_ Somebody's fucked up snuff fetish?"

               Gamora didn't laugh. "This is one room of my father's house."

               "One room?" Rocket whistled. Then the sluggish, depressive neurons of his brain caught up the rest of him. Her father. _Thanos._ Jesus.

               "Alright, princess, Why am I here? Instead of, you know, sliding into the sweet embrace of somewhere that isn't you yakking at me?"

                That was _almost_ a smile on Gamora's face. Somehow, Rocket enjoyed that. "You're being snarky. That's already an improvement."

                "...Whatever."

                Gamora's eyes flickered to the ground - and a scream pierced the still air. The images above shifted to a different set, all red, all focused downwards. From the far end of the hall, he heard doors creak open; from the electric floor, fibres wound upwards, living cables tying themselves into a table.

                “Is – is that you?” Rocket asked nervously.

                She refused to look up. "No," she replied quietly. Her face was a mask, hardly more than stone.

                Three figures appeared through the doors. Two of them were in hoods, faces hidden. The third struggled and writhed between them, blue-skinned and too thin. “Father! _Father!_ ”

                Rocket glanced over at Gamora. Her jaw was tense, fingers digging into her arm. "Why are you showing me this?" he asked quietly.

                “I – You’ll see.”

                That wasn’t a particularly comforting notion. He didn’t have his guns. He didn’t have Groot. He knew none of this was _real,_ but it was real enough to make him feel like he was drowning.

                Time skipped. The blue girl was on the table, restraints pinning her down. She was swearing, cursing – Rocket could feel something panicky and frantic rising in his chest – and then Gamora was standing at the head of the table, her sister’s head between her hands –

                “Shush, shush, Nebula, it’s going to be okay, you just need to be quiet –“

                “I tried! You – you won – again – I didn’t do anything _wrong,_ I just _couldn’t -_ “

                “I know you didn’t, but you’ve got to be quiet, okay? Just, shush, shush or it’ll just be worse –“

                One of the restraints gave way under Nebula’s frantic straining – and her fist circled around, driving into Gamora’s cheek. It didn’t have much power to it. It just knocked her back a few feet, but Rocket could see the hurt anger in her eyes. Then the anger slipped away into nothing – a blankness in her eyes that Rocket recognized. He’d seen that before. He’d watched her do it.

                Gamora let go of Nebula, and turned her back, crossing her arms. Her back muscles were tense against her shirt. But she refused to watch.

                One of the hooded figures slid a needle into Nebula's neck. She tensed, screaming another curse at her sister’s back in a language Rocket didn’t know, but then the tranquilizer did its work and Nebula slipped into unconsciousness.

                Gamora – the real one, sitting behind him – had a face just as stony, but he could see the flash of emotions behind it. And her nails – they were digging, deep into the flesh of her arm, darker green flushing out from where her blood was bruising to the surface.

                He cleared his throat. “That’s the, uh, nutjob who was working for Ronan as wel– uh, for Ronan, right?”

                She didn’t respond. Not even to tell him off. Rocket glanced uneasily at the table. It wasn’t Nebula strapped down anymore. It was Gamora herself, long hair sticking to her forehead and falling like a fountain off the side, red blood dripping from new cuts on her cheek and staining purple strands a darker shade –

                The memory-Gamora’s eyes snapped open, and she began to scream – and with the scream, the bubble shattered.

                Rocket shielded his eyes. The world went black again. This time, Gamora was still there behind him. He could hear her heartbeat against her chest. Funny. This was all in their minds, but things like that were still there. And in the outside world, everything like that was under control. Here –

               “What the hell was that?” he asked quietly, not turning around.

                She cleared her throat. “We’re – on equal ground now. I told you it was – familiar.”

                So that’s what this was about. But – “What the fuck is _wrong with you?_ ” He circled on her. There were a few wet marks on her cheeks, but she otherwise looked fine. She’d put herself back together quickly. “You think some carefully-calculated memory is going to, what, make me beg you to save my life –“

                Her fingers flashed outwards, wrapping around his neck. _Now_ she looked like something almost alive, eyes sparking with something other than controlled intent. “I’m trying to _help you,_ ” she hissed.

                He clawed at her fingers. She barely seemed to notice. But a few moments later, she remembered herself and dropped him, lips curling. “And you won’t _let_ me.”

                “Please,” he coughed hoarsely. “You’ve got survivor’s guilt, _that’s_ your problem –“

                “And you don’t?” she snapped. “You tried to kill yourself! _That’s_ my problem!”

                “At this rate, you’re likely to kill me on your own! I shoulda spared myself the _trouble._ ”

                Gamora pursed her lips. “I showed you that so that you’d trust me.”

                Oh, that was _hilarious._ “What, so I’d feel bad? I’ll show you mine if you show me yours? We’re not horny teenagers playing doctor! And now I have to rub the image of _you_ dying on a table from my brain, because my own fucking trauma wasn’t enough, _apparently._ ”

                “ _Stop it!_ ”

                “Stop what? Calling out your shitty plan –“

                “I don’t want you to die! Is that so bad?”

                “Yes!”

                The word hung between them, in the infinite black void that stretched out in place of a memory. He couldn’t stop hearing it ringing over and over in his own ears. _When did I get that bad?_ God, he could hear Groot now. No lectures. No disappointment. Just… concern.

                Gamora turned her back, and took a few steps away. He opened his mouth, trying to say something, _anything –_ “W-wait.”

                She stopped. He still didn’t know what to say. _I wasn’t really trying to die, I just didn’t want to live anymore?_ That didn’t sound convincing to _him,_ let alone anybody else.

                “I –“ He was scared. But no way in hell was he saying that. “What do you need?”

                She took a deep breath, then looked back at him. Was she smiling? Almost. Maybe he was imagining it. “Just breathe.”

 

* * *

 

The planet came to life around them. The trees with cameras in their leaves. The sky, a mauve that darkened to purple and then star-studded black when the sun set. The wire fences that delivered an electric shock just strong enough to sting and teach you a lesson deep in your animalistic brain, _do not touch._

            Rocket almost told Gamora more about it. But instead he closed his eyes. It was _his_ memory, wasn’t it? He didn’t need to watch it all over again.

            The first one hadn’t been too bad. He could hear his own squeaks, the yell of the scientist he’d bitten –

            Fast-forward. Slow. The buzzing of surgical instruments. Breaths into surgical masks. Murmured conversation. “Subject 89P13, our first success. He’ll be able to walk bipedally after recovery.”

            “Don’t call subjects _he,_ you idiot.”

            “Ah, come on. It won’t hurt.”

            Rocket wasn’t sure how long he stood there, refusing to open his eyes, the sounds of the past washing over him. The pain was rising up in him again. Each memory made a different part of him hurt.

            “Rocket,” murmured Gamora. “Were –“ she paused. “Were you awake for these?” she asked with barely concealed horror in her voice.

            Ah. Of course. She was figuring out the obvious. “Can’t remember shit I didn’t hear,” was the only answer he gave. “I don’t know what you expected.”

            “I thought –“

            “Y’don’t waste good drugs on animals,” he said flatly.

            Memory after memory. And – god forgive him – when he opened his eyes, and saw himself, it was only when he was sure he wouldn’t see an animal anymore.

            _Vermin. Rodent._

            _Subject._

_89P13._

He stared into his own eyes, and then the memory version of himself opened his mouth, and said –

“It hurts.”       


	6. Screw Me Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: chronic pain, jealousy

He opened his eyes to a metal wall. It was the _Milano -_ he could tell that much - but he couldn't remember how he'd gotten here.

 

"I am Groot!" The diminutive treefolk crawled over his leg, pouting at him, and Rocket chuckled.

 

"Sorry I worried you, Groot. I'm fine." He rolled over, ready to sit up - and froze in horror.

 

There was a green shoulder next to him. Not severed, to be clear. No, it was a green shoulder attached to a slim green arm, which was attached to what he _assumed_ was an equally green torso under the shirt she was wearing. He didn't know. Maybe whatever race Gamora actually was changed colour underneath there.

 

Well...

  


He reached forward and plucked carefully at her shirt with a paw - and her hand shot up, catching his paw in a vicelike grip. "What are you doing?" she mumbled, half-asleep.

 

"Damn, your reflexes are good."

 

"Mmn." Gamora rolled onto her back, rubbing at her eyes - then promptly fell back asleep, hand over her eyes.

 

Dang. That was some kind of pathetic. And weirdly cute. Actually, overall he didn't know how to take that. He'd expected to wake up with her hovering over him, or off doing her own thing - not casually asleep _next to him_ in the _same bed._

 

"I am Groot?" chirped Groot.

 

"Shut up," Rocket grumbled. "I'd remember if we had."

 

"I am Groot."

 

"I didn't drink anything."

 

"I am Groot!"

 

"Yeah, yeah, be surprised all you want. I have a killer headache." He got to his feet, trying to clamber off the bed - and a flash of pain seized through him, drawing a yelp out of his throat. He collapsed onto the bed.

 

"I am Gr-?"

 

"Not a word," he growled. "Or I'll eat you."

 

"I am Groot!"

 

Rocket decided maybe he better not move for now. From here, he could see Gamora's face, eyelashes flickering on her cheek and outlining the silvery implants in her skin.

 

Had any of that really happened? Probably. It didn't... _feel_ real. But Rocket supposed that dreams didn't get _that_ elaborate without some major deep-seated issues.

 

Which he had plenty of. So, no solution one way or the other. He'd just, y'know, casually bring up the subject when Gamora woke up. Right.

 

"Hey Groot," he muttered. "Why do I hurt so bad."

 

"I _am Groot,_ " he retorted, crossing his arms.

 

"...Oh. I mean, I guess that would make sense. Crazy psycho purity bitch..."

 

"I am Groot," came a different voice. Rocket glanced back up at Gamora, who had a sleepy smile on her face.

 

"Hey. You don't get to say that. That's his thing." Why was she _looking_ at him like that? "And for the reference, I was talking about _you._ What did you do to me?"

 

Gamora rolled her eyes, working her way into a sitting position with a groan. "You're overstimulated."

 

"Over-whatted?"

 

" _Overstimulated,_ " she repeated. Rocket managed to catch that, but he was distracted by Gamora's hair. It was... rumpled. And bedhead-y. And _natural._

 

"Uh. Yeah. You haven't brushed your hair yet, have you?"

 

She scoffed. "Do you _ever_ brush your fur?"

 

"Do I look like I can _reach_ most of it?" He rolled onto his back, sticking his paws into the air. "I got short arms, lady."

 

"I've noticed," she drawled. "I can help with the overstimulation. I've known other people who got it." She reached for him -

 

"Nebula?" he said without thinking. There was his stupid mouth again. Racing faster than his brain. Couldn't think it without saying it.

 

Her hand paused, trembled for a moment, then - "Yes," she said calmly. Almost too calmly. Then she brought her hand down on his head, scratching at the fur.

 

Ooh. Okay. Drax had done this before, but not when everything had ached so much he wanted to cry - "Mmm..." He leaned into her touch, closing his eyes. Her fingers worked down his back, around the edges of his suit –

 

"Come closer. I don't want to stretch that far."

 

Oh, that was tempting. A quandary, even. But damn, he did not get this kind of attention from _anybody_...

 

He shuffled a little closer, trying to ignore that he was sitting on her legs. It wasn't a particularly _large_ bed, and he still hadn't gotten a question as to why he was in it in the first place, but _head scratches_ and _soft hands_ and... damn, he kinda felt like purring. That probably was a bad sign.

 

Well, he was really good at ignoring bad signs. Especially when her other hand wrapped around him, pulling him closer to her, that was probably _also_ a bad sign. "Mmm...What, er, what got me overstimulated in the first place?" he mumbled.

 

"Heavy implant use. Especially connecting them to somebody else."

 

Ah. So it _had_ happened. He'd probably freak out about that later after the head-scritches were done. "Aren't you over-whatevered too then?"

 

"Mm...This is helping." Her voice was still sleepy, although Rocket wondered how much of that was affectation. She was an assassin, after all. Not a cutesy broad who took two hours and an entire pot of joe to get moving.

 

\- then the door slammed open, and Rocket sprang backwards with a yelp. And off the bed. He hit the floor head-first with a cringe.

 

"Rocket!"

 

He opened his eyes, to see Gamora's blurry face staring down at him with what looked shockingly like concern. God, he hoped not. This was embarrassing enough. "Alright, which dumbass was that?"

 

Gamora's face went from concerned to very, very tired. "Which one do you think?"

 

"Oh, sorry, did I interrupt your pillow-fight?"

 

Rocket groaned, leaning his head back to get a glimpse of Quill's boots. Just freaking perfect, really. It had to be Quill to find him in....Gamora's bed...getting petted...

 

Shit. He was gonna get beaten up.

 

He eased himself onto his feet. His back still ached, but he felt a bit better. "What do you want, Quill?"

 

Peter chewed on the inside of his cheek. He seemed to be wrestling with something. Then he shrugged. "Just making sure she hadn't killed you for crawling into bed with her yet."

 

"Fuck off, Quill."

 

"Same to you, trash panda."

 

Then he left, closing the door behind him - more than a little forcefully. Rocket glanced down at himself - and it was like reality shoving its way in.

 

He turned around and glared up at Gamora. "Okay, start talking. What the hell happened?"

 

Gamora shrugged, sitting up and swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, green and _surprisingly_ exposed -

 

"The heck are you wearing?"

 

"Shorts."

 

"That ain't right. You wear pants. Like, tight bitchy leather pants."

 

"...Tight bitchy leather pants," she repeated in a dry voice. She leaned forward, grabbing a hair elastic from the bedside table and gathering her hair up in a bun. "I do wear things that aren't leather, you know."

 

"Coulda fooled me."

 

"Do you pay _any_ attention to me?"

 

"I try not to," he snarked back, although that didn't sound right anymore. Eh. It wasn’t like he particularly cared about sounding like an asshole. “Anyway. What happened?”

 

“Do you remember the part where somebody was cutting you open?” she asked flatly.

 

He opened his mouth. He closed it again. _Right. You were letting somebody cut you open and she flew in and saved you – put your suit back on for you while you were passed out like some kind of wretch._ It was a good thing his fur didn’t show when he was flushing. _She saw you naked, she saw the inside of your brain – RUN RUN RUN RUN –_

He just shrugged, and walked away without an answer.

 

“Rocket-!”

 

“We’re not doing this,” he replied flatly.

 

“Doing _what?_ ”

 

“Bonding,” he snapped, and slammed the door shut behind him.


	7. Spit Me Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: mind reading/spying/paranoia, PTSD

 

            Gamora flopped back onto the bed, pushing her implants’ messages of warning away. She _got_ it. Fear. Fear of something. Very useful.

 

            She was starting to get the feeling that there wasn’t much she _wasn’t_ afraid of.

 

            _Nebula._

Yeah. Gamora was afraid of her too. At least she could admit it this time.

Sleeping hadn’t helped. The memory lingered behind her eyes, closer to the surface than it had ever been before. She’d thought sharing it would exorcise it, give her some measure of forgiveness or peace. Instead it was worse than ever.

 

            And, of course, now she’d done it to Rocket, too. Typical.

 

            _You did it so you could fix the implants._ And she had. She’d improved on them in some cases, too. The scientists who’d worked on him had been experimenting, trying new things, but not all of them had worked. Thanos’s techniques had been more refined.

 

            _Do you have the right to use your father’s work on somebody who didn’t ask for it?_ came the intrusive thought from the back of her mind. Not an implant; just her own conscience. It wasn’t really Thanos’s work anyway – just the cues of her own implants, things she’d found out from watching her own and Nebula’s and her other sisters’ surgeries.

 

_Which is all your father’s work._

She brushed it off the best that she could, staring up at the ceiling and trying to think of something else.

 

            Like how she’d never even _touched_ Rocket before yesterday.

 

            Damn it.

 

             She closed her eyes, and was dimly aware of Rocket moving around outside. The fixed cybernetics felt like soft blue flame on the insides of her eyelids, pulsing a little bit with each beat of his heart. His heart beat faster than hers, about 1.2 times by her gage –

 

            _Shut it off,_ she grumbled to her own cybernetics. They were overanalyzing everything again. She’d overworked them yesterday and now they were sensitive to everything – the patter of Rocket’s feet outside, his mild curses, the smell of coffee drifting in, Drax’s fists hitting a punching bag from above, the click of Peter playing with his Walkman followed by music streaming through the Milano – _I, I wanna know your name, but you don’t look the same, the way you did before –_

_-stupid prying bitch and now im making her coffee, why the hell am I making her coffee, just because she saved my fucking life when I didn’t ask her to, and it’s not even like I wanna die any less now –_

Gamora sat up with a gasp of horror. No. No, no, no –

 

            - _got to watch her trauma and now I’m like, DUDE! Why I gotta watch you bleeding out on a table? I kinda care and shit. Not that I actually care. I’m not even admitting that to myself. I don’t need my reputation dealing with that kinda bullshit. But it’s not like I had a whole lot going before I met these idiots, right? The idea of any of them being dead. Not something I want in my head._

No, this wasn’t what she wanted, she hadn’t – she hadn’t _meant to -_

 

            _You tried to fix him, you insufferable cow,_ and she recognized the voice in her head finally, it was Nebula, of course it was Nebula, none of her other sisters had that much disdain and hate and disappointment in her. _What did you think was going to happen?_

Gamora got shakily to her feet and opened the door. Rocket glanced up at her, still fighting with the coffeepot. “…Hi. Do you know how this fucking thing works? I think it’s one of those fancy Xandarian th-“

 

            She pushed past him, terrified to even look at him too long –

 

            _-whoa is she okay? Don’t ask if she’s_ okay, _you idiot. But I actually need her to fix this damn thing for me. Christ. We’re all a bunch of fuck-ups._

How the hell was she going to get it out of her head? His thoughts, his consciousness, linked into _hers –_

She collapsed onto the floor of the small bathroom, closing the door behind her with trembling hands, and emptied her stomach into the toilet, head spinning.

_You’re gonna have to tell him._

A warning from her implants - _Heart rate 150. Blood pressure 160/90. Tense musculature. Constricted breathing. Flushed face, upset stomach –_

_-shut UP-_

_Cause: Fear of potential outcomes._

Potential outcomes. Like the look on Rocket’s face when she told him that she’d screwed him up, again. The reaction he’d have to her, when he found out that in the end, she was just like her father.


	8. Take A Good Hard Look

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for the usual yelling and bad attitudes associated with this crew, and some misogyny/toxic masculinity from Peter. Boy's trying.

 

                His newest enemy sat on the kitchen counter, reflecting his own face back at him with a spiteful shine on its stainless steel surface. Rocket wondered if Quill would get mad at him if he blew it up. Probably. He considered doing it _anyway._

Damn his caffeine addiction. It was so much easier buying the stuff premade on Xandar, but nobody had as of yet cashed in on the truly bankable idea of floating spaceship coffee kiosks –

                Hmm.

                “Drax!”

                Drax paused outside of the kitchen door. “Yes?”

                “I got a business proposition for ya.”

                “What is it?”

                Rocket turned on the chair he was standing on. “Listen to this: Spaceship coffeeshops.”

                “…What?”

                “I’m serious!” Rocket indicated with his paw. “Like, between major planets or on really heavily-trafficked routes, so people can get pre-made coffee between like… actually inhabited areas.”

                “And you want to fund this?”

                “Yeah! Come on, man, it’s _gold._ ”

                Drax blinked at Rocket, then pointed at the coffee machine with his mug. “What is wrong with the coffee maker?”

                “…It spat at me. We can do better.”

                “How are you capable of assembling bombs and guns by memory and yet this simple machine escapes you?”

                Rocket threw up his paws in frustration. “Fine, I’ll go be a millionaire on my _own._ Just fix it, okay? I was tryna do something nice.”

                “For whom?”

                “…Never mind. Just help me make a damn cup of coffee.”

                Drax sighed, then moved the chair aside, setting the coffee to brew properly. “…You seem well. I am pleased.”

                “What? Are those _emotions?_ Damn, don’t hold back.”

                “Hold what?”

                “Never mind,” Rocket snorted. “Takes more than some old bitch trying to take me apart to get me down.”

                “It matters not. Gamora took her apart in return. Which is a shame. I was looking forward to it.”

                Rocket spluttered. “She – what?”

                Drax gave the coffee machine a hard thwack with his open palm, and it burbled to life. “It was apparently glorious. The machine is working now.”

                “Are you gonna walk away –“ Drax was already walking away. “Of course you’re walking away,” Rocket grumbled. “One’a these days you’re gonna learn how to stop being such a fucking _drama queen._ God. I hate this ship.”

                The door of the washroom opened behind him, and Gamora wiped her mouth, walking past him back to her room.

                “Hey, Gamora –“ He grabbed the cup of coffee, hopping down from the chair -

                _I don’t want it._

“Oh, well, _fine,_ ” he grumbled. “I went to all this trouble –“

                Gamora paused, glanced over her shoulder at Rocket, then her eyes softened. “Well, alright.” She bent down and took the mug from him, then met his gaze – and she tore herself away.

                Rocket wasn’t sure why he could tell how troubled she was, or why he had the funny sense that she hadn’t said nearly as much as he thought she had. He didn’t trust his brain much at the best of times. Still, she’d taken the coffee. That meant this morning hadn’t been a total bust.

                …

                Not that he cared.

                The comm above him crackled to life. “Okay, everybody, buckle up – we’re getting the hell out of dodge,” came Peter’s voice.

                “What, already?”

                “Apparently Gamora killed somebody important.”

                Rocket snorted. “Of course she did.”

                He glanced at Gamora’s bedroom door with a brief thought – _I wonder if she knew that bitch was important before she came and saved my ass –_ then went off to bother Peter. He’d worry more about Gamora later.                

* * *

 

                Quill never looked all that happy to see him as it was, but walking into the cockpit of the Milano, Rocket got a distinct feeling that he wasn’t welcome.

                “…Ain’t I supposed to feel all loved and cuddly after a brush with death?”

                Peter grumbled something under his breath. The _Milano_ finished its takeoff, the ship settling into a smooth flight pattern, then Peter hit the autopilot button and span his chair around, scanning . “Don’t you flirt with death on a regular basis? Anyway, you _look_ fine.”

                “As fine as I ever do. Where are we headed?”

                “Iunno.” Peter span his chair back to face the windshield. “Your fireworks sold well.”

                Rocket chewed on the inside of his cheek, trying to figure out what to say. Words were stupid, and hard. “…Are you mad at me?” Fuck. That sounded wimpy. “Because if you are, you need to get over it.”

                “Mad? Why would I be _mad_ at you?” Peter laughed. “I’m not the one who needs to get over himself.”

                Ooh. Now it was _on._ All the same, Rocket rather preferred this. It was all too hard to figure out whether people were angry or upset or just exhausted when they kept it to themselves. When they started yelling – _yelling_ he could respond to. Yelling he could deal with. “Uh huh. What’s it you call yourself again? Star-King?”

                “It’s _Star-Lord,_ hairball, and I know for a fact you know that.”

                “Uh huh. What do you want with Gamora?”

                “Shouldn’t I be asking you that? You’re the one who was _climbing out of her bed_ this morning.”

                “After a near-death experience. You keep glossing over that.”

                Peter threw his hands in the air, then got to his feet, stabbing a finger at Rocket. “And _you’re_ glossing over the fact that you’re two feet tall with the attitude of a gopher?”

                “What’s a – Never mind. What’s the fact that I’m _short_ got to do with it?”

                “Why would she want _you?_ ” And more than anything, Rocket realized, Peter sounded incredulous. “I’m doing what I’m supposed to do – I rescued her, I helped her against Ronan, I’ve been _trying,_ and she won’t give me a second look, and then you play the damsel in distress and suddenly you’re her favourite?”

                “Damsel in distress? Man, listen to yourself for two seconds –“

                “I’m not saying _anything worse_ than you do on a _regular goddamn basis-!_ ”

                “Stop it!”

                Peter shut his mouth, straightening up with a sulky look on his face. Rocket winced, then turned around to face Gamora, who stood at the top of the stairs with unreadable features. For all her stoicism, though, Rocket could feel the fury rolling off of her. He wondered if Peter could, too – but Peter was clueless on the _best_ of days.

                “I’ve spent most of my life getting away from one man who considered me a prize. Now I have to endure two more arguing over who _deserves_ me more?”

                “Seriously? You’re going to walk in here and compare me to Thanos -?”

                “If you don’t want to be compared to Thanos,” she said dryly, “don’t sound like him.”

                Peter started back like Gamora had hit him. Then he scoffed, shaking his head. He pushed past Gamora, marching down the steps, and Rocket heard the thought almost as clearly as if it had been said out loud – _I didn’t mean it I didn’t mean it I didn’t mean it except I did, I take it back, don’t leave –_

“He’ll be fine,” he said quietly.

                Gamora’s eyes snapped back up to him, pupils pinpricks in her purple irises.

                “I mean – his ego’s hurting, but he’ll recover. I can’t promise he’ll listen but I – oh, never mind, you’re mad at me too, I’m gonna stop talking.” He couldn’t decide whether he should leave or not.

                The image in his head didn’t belong to him. It didn’t seem to mean anything, either – three moons spinning around each other, reflecting red light. “I’m not mad at you,” she said finally. “Just –“ Her hand moved up her arm, and Rocket wasn’t sure if she was aware of it. “I – caught enough of it. He wasn’t being fair to you.”

                “As a group, we’re not particularly hung up on fairness. It’s fine.”

                _IT’S NOT FINE_

The thought was so loud it startled him, and Gamora flinched too. “I – didn’t think he’d go after you like that.” _ITS NOT FINE ITS NOT FINE ITS NOT FINE - Heart rate 140. Blood pressure 160/90. Tense musculature. Constricted breathing._

                Rocket could have said a lot of things. But for the first time in a long time, he managed to keep them to himself. “Seriously. It’s fine.” The other options  – jokes, barbs, taunts, and the occasional serious response – wandered around his mind. _Ah, he didn’t say anything I’m not used to._ Or – _Hell, let’s just do what we’re accused of doing. Saves us the trouble._

As he thought the last one, he caught a sudden darkening of Gamora’s cheeks – and he slipped past her, hiding his grin. “I’m gonna go clean my guns,” he drawled, and he couldn’t see her blush darkening, but he could _feel_ it.

                He was _so_ going to hold this over her for the next billion years. He’d figured out her secret.


	9. Can You See Me?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for some sexual references! Nothing explicit yet, although the rating of this fic will eventually be going up. Also TW for Rocket's self-hate and other mental issues, but that's sort of a general thing for this fic.

CHAPTER NINE

 

                Gamora stared at the ceiling of her room, and wondered if she could risk turning down her implants just to make counting the number of beams go a little slower.

                 _Cause of insomnia: increased adrenaline and cortisol in nervous centers. Diagnosis: anxiety-induced sleeplessness –_

“Yes, I _know,_ you worthless things,” she grumbled.

                 <Having trouble?> chimed in a new, yet all-too-familiar voice.

                 Gamora bit down on the inside of her cheek, and resolved to ignore him. She’d known. She’d _known_ she was on borrowed time.

                 <I know you can hear me,> Rocket drawled. <I’ve been catching your thoughts all day.>

                 Fuck.

                 <Language.>

                 < _Fuck you!_ >

                 <Have I mentioned how much more interesting you are when you’re not self-editing? Because man, I thought you were just kind of a bitch, but no, you’re like… this fascinating walking disaster on the inside. I love it.>

                 Gamora couldn’t decide whether to be angry, upset, or sort of flattered. <…Thank you?>

                 <You’re welcome, princess.>

                 <Princess of _what?_ >

                 <…I dunno. Do you _have_ to be princess of something?>

                 To her surprise, Gamora realized there was a smile on her lips. <I think you’re making fun of me.>

                 <Me? Make fun of you?>

                 <Did you want something?>

                 <Nah. I’m just bored and can’t sleep. And you’re fun to poke.> Rising up behind the words, surprisingly enough, was Peter. Gamora couldn’t hear the words coming out of Peter’s mouth, but she supposed that wasn’t the important part – besides, she’d heard them earlier, echoing through her link with Rocket. _Why would she want you?_

                 Gamora sat up, tucking her hair behind her ear and debating whether to be prudent or not. In the end, curiosity – and okay, she could admit it, a measure of concern – won out. <Is your fight with Peter still bothering you?>

                 <Fight? Pfft. That wasn’t a _fight._ Just our usual, y’know. Stuff.> Underneath, like a hidden layer, was another stream of thought – _yes I didn’t need it rubbed in that I’m not worth anybodys time or love or kindness – fuck god damn you’re –_ <you’re _listening,_ aren’t you?>

                 <It’s nothing I didn’t know ->

                 <God, shut up. You think that helps?> _stop knowing things about me, stop sounding like you care because I am perilously fucking close to believing you –_

Gamora closed her eyes, arms wrapped around her legs. Thinking in words was hard. She only did it when she was arguing with herself or her implants. Instead, she sent a memory of a sensation - the feeling of his fur against her fingers, soft and prickly, with a brush of metal here and there.

                 It wasn’t as good at the real thing. But she was surprised to find that the pointed edges of Rocket’s thoughts were softening. It felt like a released breath, and a surge of affection rushed up in her chest – and a few seconds later, she dampened it with a flicker of panic.

                 <…Man, that actually helps. Not as much as the actual thing, but, well. Yeah.>

                 <Does Peter running off his mouth really bother you that much?>

                 Rocket paused, but the stream of thoughts underneath didn’t stop – _what counts as bothering me, my constant need to punch him in the face or the fact that I know he’s just as much of a dumbass as me and doesn’t mean half of it_ \- <I dunno. I mean, it – would be nice if the idea of me wanting, y’know, a relationship or sex or anything like that wasn’t such a freakin’ _alien concept._ But nobody cares how smart or interesting or cool you are, or how good you are with a gun, when you’re a fucking raccoon. Best I can hope for is cute and cuddly, and I’m not about that shit. >

 She supposed she'd known at least some of that. It wasn't a surprise - but she sat back, soaking it in anyway. Despite herself, her brain wandered - she couldn't help but wonder what sex with Rocket would be _like,_ and -

 A loud guffaw echoed through the ship, and Gamora's green cheeks darkened with a mix of fury and embarrassment. She launched herself up from her bed, and opened the door. "ROCKET! SHUT UP!"

<I can't help it! Oh man! Special hi-def porno images of me!>

< _I said shut up! > _She slammed the door shut, ignoring the grumbling of Peter from the other room. They'd woken up everybody, but she had to admit - it was _kind_ of funny. Or at least she'd admit it when she stopped wanting to die of shame. <It - you were talking about it! Of course I thought about it! The subject came up!>

 <I didn't even think you _had_ a sex drive!>

 <Well I - I do, and weren't you just complaining about people making assumptions about you?>

 <Yeah, but ->

 Gamora pushed the images away, but Rocket dragged them back. <No, no, by all means keep going.>

 <You're a fucking pervert,> she snarled, covering her mouth to stop from laughing hysterically.

 <Says the woman trying to figure out what my dick looks like. I can send you a reference picture if you want ->

 < _Oh my god DIE. >_

* * *

 

 By the time morning rolled around - or what passed for morning with their bizarre schedules in the depth of space - Gamora was almost regretting not sleeping. She or Rocket kept getting close, and then one or the other of them would have some weird, half-conscious thought that set the laughter off again.

The upside was, she got to watch Rocket fight with the coffee machine in person this time. "Need help?"

" _No!_ "

She took a sip of the water she'd opted for, at least while enjoying the show. "You sure?"

"I can make coffee on my own. I will, _eventually,_ figure out how."

Gamora sighed, then leaned over him, flicking the switch at the back. "This time, it wasn't on."

Rocket glared up at her. "...Well. That. Anybody could have missed that." He narrowed his eyes. "Also you're too tall."

Gamora just grinned, and scritched Rocket's head briefly before pushing her mug under the coffee pot and sitting down at the kitchen table.

_He hasn't asked you how this happened._

It gave her time to figure out how to say it. But the best thing she could do now was refuse to think about it - because otherwise he'd find out, whether she wanted him to or not.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW for some discrimination against Rocket but that's all really.

"Alright, everybody, outta the van!"

"Van?" echoed Drax in confusion.

"It's - it's an Earth thing. Never mind." Peter shooed them out of the Milano. "Okay, meet me back here at, what - sunset? Does sunset sound okay?"

Gamora bit back her response, and just smiled and nodded. Rocket, however -

"Yes, _Mom._ We've got our allowance and our curfew. What else, packed lunch?"

Peter narrowed his eyes, and Gamora coughed, trying to cover her laugh. <Rocket.>

<It's banter! Gentle banter!>

"Yeah, sure, how does a knuckle sandwich sound?" Peter tossed a sack of coins at Rocket. "Here. Your share from the fireworks. And, y'know, some extra. Get yourself some more guns or bombs or whatever makes you happy."

Rocket caught the pouch, then stared up at Peter with confusion. "...Is there a leech in your brain?"

"What, because I'm being _nice?_ I can be nice. I'm a nice person."

"I call bullshit."

"I'm _un-_ calling bullshit."

"That's not how that works!"

"I am Groot?" Groot asked from the pot off to the side. Peter sighed, and patted him on the head.

"We're getting the Milano fixed up, Groot. No shopping for us this time around." Peter glanced up at Gamora, then away again. "Gamora - uh - did you wanna come help me find a good mechanic? Not that I can't do it myself."

Gamora thought about it, sincerely. Peter was trying. But - "I have to find some stuff."

"Oh. Okay. Well, I've got Groot. Well - see you guys later." He walked back up the gangplank into the Milano - then turned back, giving them the "I'm watching you" gesture. "Sunset! And I swear to god, if any of you get into trouble, I'm _leaving you here._ "

"Yes, Mom."

"AUGH!"

Then he was gone, and a few moments later, Drax was heading off in the other direction, chortling in a way that made Gamora _very_ nervous. And Rocket was standing there, outwardly perfectly fine...

Gamora cleared her throat. <You know I can hear you, right?>

"FUCK!"

<For the record, I think it's very sweet to stress out about whether asking me to go shopping with you counts as a date, but I wouldn't worry about it.>

Rocket raised an eyebrow - then shrugged. "Ah. I just want the company. Besides, you know more about weapons than any of these other idiots." They started walking, and Gamora kept her strides slow to keep pace with his shorter legs. "I don't know what Drax _actually_ ended up in prison for, but it wasn't for some criminal masterminding, I know that."

Gamora laughed, sticking her hands in her pockets. "Whereas you're a regular mafioso."

"That's a compliment, right?"

"Close enough."

Rocket smirked. <I bet you have a thing for bad boys.> \- and she paused, trying to regain her breath from choking.

" _Rocket,_ oh my _god -_ "

"I didn't do nuffin."

She was blushing again, and her implants kept pinging at her for increased heart rate, but she waved them away. _I'm so not dealing with this right now._ "So where are we going?"

"This is pretty much a trade outpost, although it's pretty busy so it's a little more built-up than some of the shitholes Quill's taken us to."

Gamora glanced up. Peter had parked them near the bottom of a hill, and they'd reached the slope. "So over this hill is -"

"An honest-to-god, bona-fide city. Small, but there's actual choice." Rocket started making his way up the hill, and Gamora reflected that he'd probably have no trouble if he was on all fours. He was just being stubborn. "Come on - it's just over the hill. I ended up here on a smuggling run with Groot once."

"Alright." She walked over to him, then paused. "I know I'm not as big as Groot, but there's room for you on my shoulders."

"I'm fine. It's all good."

Gamora tried again. <If you stay upright, you'll be exhausted by the time you reach the top.>

"I'm _fine,"_ he grumbled.

<You don't have to be. It's okay.>

He grumbled something unintelligible, then a moment later, he jumped, claws digging briefly into her arm until he was standing on her shoulder, hands braced on her head. "I'm kind of heavier than I look."

"I'm stronger than I look." She raised her arm to adjust his feet on her shoulder, pushing his claws onto the leather of her shirt. "Don't worry. Groot will be grown-up again before you know it."

"Yeah, yeah, I _know_ that. Don't 'don't worry' me. I just miss having a giant lunk of wood to ride on when my legs get tired."

She snorted at that. "Yeah, and who's going to carry me when _I_ get tired?"

"I dunno. Drax? You can swoon into _his_ arms. Try swooning on me and I'm just letting you fall."

"With your charm, it's _amazing_ you haven't won over some lovely furry lady.”

Rocket rolled his eyes, although Gamora could feel him smiling. “I don’t want a furry lady. Most of them don’t talk good.”

Gamora had a response at the ready, then she reached the crest of the hill – “ _Oh._ Oh. You weren’t… oh!”

Rocket laughed, then jumped down from her shoulders, leaning against her leg. The city of Ersen sprawled out in front of them, plate glass windows and brightly-coloured displays gleaming in the sunlight, and instead of the hawkers’ cries they’d heard in the battered market, there was a cacophony of music, a different song playing from every shop window.

“I mean, it’s not Xandar, but it’s a nice change.” And then, a little bashfully, as if this planet had been _his_ idea and not just the closest stop on their way to their next job - <You like it?>

Gamora just started making her way down the hill, pointing to the nearest shop. “That one.”

“Yeah?”

“We’re starting there.”

Rocket snorted, and hopped down after her, climbing back onto her shoulders. <There’s a joke in here about girls and shopping ->

<Don’t start.>

<Okay, okay, I’ll behave.> Rocket paused. <...Seriously, though, you’re like a kid in a candy store and we haven’t even gotten into the shops yet ->

Gamora closed a hand around his muzzle.

<You know that does nothing, right?>

“I’m sending a message,” she said, lips quirking upwards. She couldn’t remember the last time she'd smiled this much. Rocket really _was_ a good influence on her.

<I heard that.>

<I know you did.>

\----

She hadn’t expected to enjoy herself so much. As much as she enjoyed looking at things, she knew what she needed – weapons, mostly, some new rations, a book or two.

All the same, when Rocket drew her attention to the coat in the window, it was hard to look away. It wasn’t a _pretty_ coat. It was battered brown leather, with metal studs at the hem and collar, and – sue her – it took Gamora about five seconds to imagine herself in it, swaggering around just like any big, bad Ravager. Not that she’d ever be a Ravager. They never bathed.

“Buy it,” Rocket whispered.

“Stuff it.”

“What?”

“I don’t need you nuking my impulse control.”

“Impulse control is overrated.”

“That explains so much about you.”

“You’ve known me for how many months and you hadn’t figured that out yet?”

Gamora pursed her lips – then ended up in the store anyway. “I’m just going to try it on.”

“Was that for me or for yourself?” Rocket asked, and Gamora considered the benefits of just pushing him off his shoulder.

“Excuse me,” she said to the shopkeeper, and the shopkeeper turned to her with the standard broad smile – which dropped almost imperceptibly.

_-dangerdangerdanger – Midrange height, one concealed weapon at his waist, adrenaline spike –_

_-not directed at you._

Gamora glanced up at Rocket, who had stiffened at her neck, claws digging into her shoulder. <He doesn’t like you,> she noted.

<Yeah, you fuckin’ think?>

“I’m afraid we have a strict no-pets policy in our store-“ drawled the storekeeper, and Gamora could _feel_ the rage rise up in Rocket’s head – in _hers –_ and even though it was hard to tell the difference, she still managed to jerk her hand up to grab a handful of Rocket’s fur and stop him from throwing himself at the asshole’s face.

<Rocket. Breathe.>

<Don’t tell me what to _do!_ >

“My _companion_ and I,” Gamora said calmly, with a distinct edge to her voice that made the shopkeeper wince, “are here to browse your store. If you don’t want our business, we’ll leave, but I’m sure you don’t want any trouble. After all, I’d hate to let Star-Lord know his friends were turned away at the door.”

“Who the hell is Star-Lord? I don’t want _vermin_ in here-“

Gamora sighed. Right. They were in _that_ part of the galaxy. “Translation: Stop being an asshole, or I’ll blow your face off,” she continued peevishly, dropping her nice demeanour. “And if I don’t,” she added, “he will.”

Rocket whistled, and polished the stick of dynamite on his belt.

A few moments later, she walked out of the door, admiring the way her new coat swished around her ankles and trying to ignore Rocket’s uproarious laughter. “Stop it.” She tried to sound serious.

“I can’t believe you tried to trade on Quill’s reputation! _Quill’s!_ ”

“Stop it,” she said again, although she couldn’t stop smiling.

“You’re a _daughter of Thanos_ and you tried to intimidate him with _Star-Lord?_ You were making fun of Quill for that this _morning!_ ”

“Yes, and if you ever tell him, I’ll stick you in a blender. Rocket smoothie.”

“That sounds like a bad plan. You’d get fur in your teeth.”

Gamora just rolled her eyes, sighing. …It _was_ a nice coat. She felt badass.

“You _look_ badass. I’m glad you got it. Looks good on you.”

She shrugged. “It’s useful. And – look!” She opened it up. “It has _ten_ pockets, Rocket. _Ten. Pockets._ ”

“All the better to hide bombs in!”

“I – no.”

“Why not?”

“…That’s your thing. I don’t want to intrude.”

“Uh huh.” Rocket pointed off into a different direction. “Weapons is that way, by the way.”

“Time to get you another gun?”

“A _bigger_ one.”

“Size doesn’t matter, you know.” She couldn’t help a wry smile at that.

“Maybe not most of the time. But when it comes to guns? Size is the _only_ thing that matters.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW for sensory overload/panic attack!

Rocket wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing.

                Scratch that. Very scratch that.

                He had no fucking clue what he was doing. And it was starting to be a problem. He’d managed to shove most of his panicking deep enough that he was _pretty sure_ Gamora couldn’t hear it, but he wasn’t totally sure, but he’d finally reached the point that the fact that she _might_ be able to was just making him more anxious –

                _Hush,_ he reminded himself, leaning against the far wall of the white, boxy weapons store. Gamora was examining some of the swords on display with a particularly unimpressed look, and he found his eyes lingering on her face, tracing the sharp cheekbones like knives, the circuits that glittered around her eyes, her pursed lips –

                _How long have you been admiring her?_ asked a voice he didn’t want to acknowledge, and he pushed that away, hoping she wasn’t paying attention. The truth was, he didn’t know. He’d been too busy sulking and being bitter how about how much _better_ of a cyborg she was, how she’d probably been willing, how she’d probably _wanted_ it, unlike him –

                He thought of the image of her on the slab again, and the image was loud and clear enough that a shudder – almost imperceptible – ran through her body. He hadn’t meant to, and he tried to clamp down on his thoughts even more. He’d never been psychic before. He didn’t know how it worked. Truth was, he hadn’t decided whether it made him uncomfortable or happy or an odd mix of a thousand different emotions at once. God, he still didn’t even know how it’d _happened._

But the most prominent part was something he could live with – he was _happy_ he’d survived. Some of the actual events he could have lived without. But if he’d died, or lost sentience, or whatever the fuck he’d been after, he wouldn’t be standing here, staring at Gamora, trying to work up the nerve to ask her on a real date. After all. She hadn’t _said_ that it wasn’t a bad idea. Just not to worry about it.

Which, upon reflection, was frustratingly vague.

Fucking assassins.

“Excuse me,” Gamora said to the vendor in annoyance, “but why are your swords all made of sub-par metal?”

“They’re made of the finest metal in this system, miss –“

“Bullshit,” she interrupted. “These aren’t worth my time. Where are the rest?”

“That’s all we have.”

Rocket snorted. “Gamora, swords are a little hard to come by.”

The look on her face was like a kicked puppy, if kicked puppies could psychically project their massive disappointment directly into Rocket’s head. “But I like swords.”

“Really? Hadn’t noticed.”

“What do you suggest?” she grumbled, crossing her arms. The vendor took the opportunity to slink away.

“Let me introduce to you the wonderful world of firearms.”

She snorted. “I can fire a _gun,_ Rocket.”

“Yeah, but you don’t carry them.” Rocket tugged her over to the other side of the shop. A long glass case took up the entire wall, and he caught the twitch of her mouth as she surveyed the guns. “And you should. Because guns are _awesome._ ”

“Can I stab people with a gun?”

Rocket blinked, and considered that for a moment. “…I mean. If they’re really squishy, and you’re really determined.”

“I’m going to find somewhere with good swords.”

“Aw, come _on._ ” He grabbed her sleeve, and she groaned, but let him lead her to the far end of the blaster display. “Check this out. Semi-automatic plasma rifles with sniper sights.”

 _Now_ she looked interested. Still… “I prefer laser.”

“Laser takes more money than I think I’ve had on me in my whole life. I mean, I’ve _had_ laser, but I stole them.”

“Even with a sniper sight, you can’t get precise enough with plasma. At that point you might as well use old-fashioned bullets.”

Rocket pulled a face at _that._ “God. Might as well be fuckin’ _cavemen-_ “ And then he was distracted by something else shiny. “Oooh. He’s got a _grenade rifle._ I fuckin’ hate keeping these loaded but they make nice booms. Gamora –“ He turned back to look at her, and she was holding the plasma rifle with a small smirk. “Gamora?”

“It’s light. I like it.” She aimed it at the while – then sighed in disappointment. “Right. They don’t let you fire them. How are you supposed to know if you like something if you can’t practice with it?”

“Aw, that’s easy. Gimme that.”

She handed him the rifle wordlessly, and he fiddled with the trigger. “It’s too much work to actually decommission the guns they put out for sale, y’know. So they just – ah, there you go, you little bugger – slide a piece of lead into the battery to dampen out the power, then they just yank it out when they sell it to ya.” He handed back it to Gamora with a grin. “There ya go. Fully-functional.”

She aimed it at the whitewashed wall – and fired. It wasn’t a particularly _big_ blast, but it left a sizable scorch mark on the wall, and she grinned. “Hmm. That’s _decent._ I mean, I still prefer swords.”

“ _What are you doing?_ ” came the cry from the back. Rocket ignored it. He was too busy impressing Gamora.

“Aw, that’s nothing. Give me that again?”

She did so. “I keep forgetting how well you know your way around these things.”

“Oh, you won’t forget again. Okay, so these things have a safety limiter on them – the idea being that it keeps idiots from blowing themselves up when they don’t know what they’re doing. Luckily I know what I’m doing –“

“-And you’re also an idiot?”

“True, but shut up.” Rocket yanked out another piece of the gun, and pulled the trigger. A giant plasma bolt shot up into the air, punching a sizable hole into the roof of the store and raining plaster dust down onto both of them, as well as a few flaming chunks of drywall.

There was a beat of silence. Then an alarm started going off.

<Is this where we run?> Gamora asked silently.

<Absolutely. Dibs on the gun.>

\---

                All things considered, it was a _good_ thing this place wasn’t Xandar, otherwise evading the authorities would have been a lot harder. But turned out that for all its comparative wealth, the police weren’t much better than standard-issue rent-a-cops, and the two of them ended up under a bridge, stifling giggles and trying to catch their breath.

                Rocket opened his satchel. “Donuts?”

                “Where did – _Rocket!_ ”

                “Stole them from the convenience store we turned at about five minutes ago. Want one?” He picked up one and took a bite.

                Gamora stared at him incredulously – then sighed. “I _am_ hungry. And I never got around to buying rations.”

                “That’s okay. I managed to grab some from the grocery store we shortcutted through. Mostly freeze-dried, but that’s space for you.”

                “Are your fingers covered with _molasses?”_

Rocket paused. “What’s molasses?” he asked, mouth full.

                “Very sticky,” Gamora retorted, grabbing Rocket’s satchel and looking through it. “Okay, so you got all _your_ favourite foods.”

                “Yeah, what’s wrong with that?”

                Gamora sighed, then ruffled his fur. “Nothing. It’s fine.”

                Rocket leaned into her touch despite himself, then caught her thoughts. _I still have to tell him –_

<Tell me what?> he broke in.

                She froze, fingers pausing mid-stroke. “N-nothing.” _He heard it he heard it he heard it he heard it – I can’t hide it I can’t I can’t I CAN’T –_

“Gamora. C’mon.”

                 She was trembling slightly, then she took a deep breath, and Rocket could _hear_ her implants clicking and working – probably only in her head, but it was an odd sensation anyway. “You – you never asked.” _Why we’re linked,_ her mind finished. _Why this is happening._

Rocket supposed he hadn’t. That was part of his whole deal, wasn’t it? Enjoy himself, ask questions later. Threaten a Ravager ship, figure out how to make sure Peter and Gamora weren’t dead later. Get his implants torn out… something, something, profit. “…You did something when you fixed me up. Didn’t you?”

                Gamora was silent, inside and out.

                He couldn’t decide whether to be mad or not. For some reason, his mind was more at peace than it had ever been, whether it was spillover from Gamora’s implants (he could feel how high they were turned up, blocking out as much emotion as they could; he didn’t know how to feel about that, either) or something else entirely. “Was it on purpose?”

                She shook her head. “I was –“ But speaking out loud was too hard. Instead she sent an image – circuits divorced from context, wires looping in and out of each other, connections that hadn’t quite been made. She’d _fixed_ something. Something that had meant to exist. But in doing so –

                <It’s like a radio,> she explained. <We’re on the same frequency.>

                <So I just have to _think_ on a different frequency?>

                <I…I think so?> She shrugged. <I don’t know how it works. I’m sorry.>

                She was waiting for something. He leaned over, trying to see her face, but it was stony and impassive. “Gamora,” he said out loud. “Turn them down.”

                “No,” she said flatly.

                “I don’t know what your implants do, but right now, you kind of sound like a radio on an empty channel.”

                She didn’t respond. Even to laugh. That wasn’t good. Rocket chewed on the inside of his cheek. Whatever he _was_ catching wasn’t enough to tell him how hers worked, and his little trip through her mindscape hadn’t given him any more information. All he knew was that the modifications that had been done to her had been involuntary, painful, and a _world_ away from his in terms of complexity.

                He got to his feet. “Let’s get back to the ship –“

                Her hand darted up, grabbing his paw. He stared down at it in confusion, then paid attention – as much as he could.

                - _toomucheverythingtoomuchnoisetoomanypeople-_

_-I put them too high and now I can’t breathe-_

Rocket squatted down on his haunches in front of her. <Have you done this before?>

                _-I do it a lot because no feel no feel no feel but then I see I touch I smell everything and I don’t feel anything but too much too much-_

Outwardly, Gamora looked fine. Calm, cool, collected – everything an assassin should be.

                Inside, her thoughts were racing so fast that they sounded like distant static.

                _Well,_ Rocket thought to himself with a grim realization, _this answers some questions I really should have asked before now._

                He rummaged through his satchel, trying to find something to help without making too much noise. Even the rustling seemed to go straight to Gamora’s ears, not that she reacted outwardly. Then he found something – “Gamora. I’m gonna put something on your head. Okay?”

                <…Okay.>

                He put the helmet attachment behind her ear, glad that he’d made that stupid bet with Peter after all. Then he activated it, and the moment the helmet appeared around her head, he could _feel_ the relief washing over her, washing through the connection between the two of them, over the wavelength they shared. Her grip on his paw relaxed.

                <Now lower your implants, you silly goose. They’ll behave now, right?>

                She nodded. Slowly, her muscles began to relax, until her arms flopped by her sides. Rocket grinned, and took another bite of his donut. “Good thing I had that helmet. And _you_ told me not to take it.”

                Gamora gathered the energy to give him a middle finger. Then she stole his donut.


	12. Let Me In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: PTSD, body insecurity, jealousy, and - the much-awaited smut!

She wondered if it would mitigate the amount of trouble she was in if she told Peter he’d finally figured out how to look mildly intimidating. If she wasn’t still emotionally burnt out from her conversation with Rocket – and slight implant mishap – she would have been almost scared. Or at least, she would have if she hadn’t known he was deliberately imitating Yondu.

                “What part,” said Peter with a low growl, “of ‘don’t get into trouble’” – he got to his feet, longcoat swishing around his legs, “sounded like _blow a hole in a ceiling_ and steal a bunch of stuff?”

                “The part where we didn’t get caught?” Rocket replied innocently. Gamora couldn’t help it – the laugh snorted out of her, and Peter’s eyes snapped to her.

                “I honestly expected better from you, Gamora. Aren’t you supposed to be the reasonable one?”

                Gamora raised an eyebrow at Peter. “We met because I got into a fight with you on a public city street.”

                Peter held up a finger, mouth open – then let it drop with a scowl. “Stop being right, it’s making me look bad.”

                “Should I lie instead?”

                “The _point is –_ when I say don’t get into trouble, I mean it. If I want you to get into trouble, I’ll just say so.”

                Rocket snorted. “After we brought you muffins and everything.”

                Peter took another bite out of the blueberry muffin, jabbing a finger at Rocket. “You can’t bribe me with sweets and get away with it!” Then he grumbled quietly. “You can go though. Just no more blowing things up.”

                “I don’t promise _nothin’._ ”

                “I’d be scared if you did.”

                Rocket wandered off, and Gamora caught the last few threads of a thought from him – a quiet satisfaction. Then –

                “Hey, Gamora?”

                She glanced up at him, noting with a feeling she couldn’t quite place that it was suddenly just the two of them in the room. _Is he going to flirt with me again?_

<He what?>

                <Rocket, relax. I’ve got this. Out of my head.>

                <But –>

                Peter dug his hands into the pockets of his coat, looking for all the world like an overgrown high schooler, and Gamora watched him chew at the inside of his cheek. Then – “I bought you something.”

                “You did?”

                “Yeah.” He took a deep breath. “What you did for Rocket back on Nateri – that was really brave. And so I got some – well.” He pulled the bag out of his pocket. “Some more of the boosters if you ever need them –“ He gave her a quick stare. “ _Only_ if you need them. And some blockers.”

                “Blockers?”

                Peter nodded. “Yondu doesn’t use them as much, but a lot of borgs do. It cuts some of the transmissions… I don’t know how, something about nanobots? But it means it’s not as.” He waggled his hand around his head. “Noisy, y’know?”

                Somehow, it hadn’t occurred to Gamora. Peter had grown up with a cyborg. Of course he knew.

                “I, uh –“ He stammered. “There’s enough there for Rocket too, I just don’t know how his stuff works, and – It’s – It’s not like _that._ I just wanted to…” He shrugged. “Whatever.”

                “It’s sweet.”

                He blinked.

                “Thank you,” she said.

                < _Thank you? > _Rocket repeated incredulously.

                <He’s trying to apologize, Rocket. To both of us.>

                <He is? Seems more like he’s trying to seduce you.>

                <Don’t get jealous.>

                <I’m not jealous,> Rocket grumbled unconvincingly.

                Gamora took the bag from Peter with a smile, and for a second, she thought he was going to lean in and kiss her. But he didn’t, tearing his eyes away. “I’m an ass,” he said finally.

                “I know.”

                “Anyway. Go buckle in, we’re heading out.”

                She nodded, fingers curling around the bag. Then she turned around, the smile dancing over her lips.

                <So what’s the point of those?>

                <Privacy, Rocket.>

                He didn’t articulate anything, but underneath, she could feel the small hint of resentment. Gamora sighed.

                <You don’t need to be in my head _all_ the time.>

                <Well – well, no.>

                <And we can probably find a way to reverse it.>

                <…Yeah.> Underneath, again, a little louder, the discontent, the sense that Rocket was perfectly happy with how things were now.

                Gamora supposed she couldn’t blame him. But she’d spent too long looking over her shoulder and guarding every expression, every twitch on her face, every possible hint of her coming betrayal, to be entirely comfortable with her thoughts and emotions laid bare.

                <…I’m gonna try one now.>

                <Wait, Gamora…>

                She shook one of the blockers free of the bag, and still keeping up her pace through the hallways, swallowed it dry. The gel capsule slid down her throat, and before she’d rounded the corner, the other thoughts in her mind had gone silent.

                Rocket stared balefully at her from across the room, then returned to disassembling the gun in front of him.

                “You don’t need to look at me like that,” she retorted.

                He just shrugged. Gamora didn’t need to be able to hear his thoughts to see the look of hurt in the way he crouched over his work. But she needed some time to herself. Her head still hurt from her breakdown.

\----

                _“What aren’t you telling me?”_

_“N-nothing.”_

_Nebula looks up at her with fury in her eyes. ”Are you lying to me?”_

_Years of practice under Thanos. But Gamora still almost breaks –_

_“No. Stop it.”_

_“Gamora! Tell me the truth!”_

_“I am.”_

\---

                -she sprung awake with the lies still on her lips.

                She just wanted to stop thinking about Nebula. Period.

                She became vaguely aware of a distant voice nagging at the corner of her mind. Rocket. She could almost hear him, but the blockers hadn’t worn off yet. He’d felt her nightmare.

                She turned and pressed her face into the pillow, trying not to cry. They were _her_ nightmares. _Hers._ She never should have shared so much with Rocket. Now she was trying to draw away, trying to regain her equilibrium, and every speck of distance _hurt –_ hurt almost as much as the feeling of somebody prying into her head.

                The door opened, and Gamora made a quiet sound that she hoped sounded enough like ‘go away’ to work. But her thoughts had other ideas – she could feel them reach out for him, for _Rocket_ because she could feel him more and more clearly with each moment.

                “If you don’t want me here,” he said quietly, voice stumbling, “you can say so. But –“

                _But what?_

                “-I think maybe you could do with some company.”

                _I just want to be alone,_ she tried to say, even though the connection hadn’t been reestablished yet. Her mouth wasn’t working. Every time she even thought about opening it, the tears hiding behind her eyes tried to fall, even more.

                Rocket’s thoughts were getting stronger and stronger. She thought about raising her implants again, shutting off all the emotions that were building in her chest. But –

                “Hey.” Rocket’s paw rested on her head, soft against the part of her scalp that kept _aching_ in a headache that never seemed to stop. “Hey, I’m here, okay?”

                When had he learned to be so _gentle?_

                <When I learned nobody else was going to be,> came the reply in her head, still a little distant, still aching a little. <I don’t promise to be good at it. But I-> _I want to be what you need,_ came the faded underthought.

                Gamora nodded quietly. Then she reached out an arm, grabbing the front of Rocket’s shirt and tugging him closer.

                <Woah. Okay.>

                “Just-“ she mumbled, her words broken and slurred. “Just stay here. With me.”

                Rocket clambered into the bed, and she _remembered_ this. The softness of his fur. But this time she wasn’t saving him. They were just finding each other.

                “So am I reading into this?” he teased gently.

                “No. Just. Shush.” She pressed her face into his chest, and his laughter was gentle, still with an edge of confusion, but it didn’t matter. It meant she could calm down. _Without_ the implants. Because – she was starting to realize – her implants were a Catch-22.

                She lifted her head, considering her options – “Am I going to get a mouthful of fur if I kiss you?” she asked with a touch of disappointment.

                Rocket blinked – then threw his head back with a gleeful laugh. “ _Kiss_ me? With _my_ teeth?”

                In retrospect, she really should have thought about that. She planted a kiss on the top of his snout anyway, chuckling at the way he wrinkled his nose and kissing him again for good measure. <Are – are you blushing under all that fur?>

                <No. Of course not.>

                She took one of his paws in her own and pulled it to her ribcage, just below her breasts. <Stay with me.>

                <I – I’m not sure,> he admitted quietly. Gamora paused, heart sinking. She couldn’t be wrong, she wasn’t reading things wrong again –

                <You don’t find me attractive?> Her thoughts, moving faster than she could control – and Rocket glanced away.

                <It’s not that. It’s ->

                <Rocket->

                <I’m nervous! Let me be nervous!> He closed his eyes, but she could feel the impulse he was having to run away. <Me finding you attractive is _not_ the problem.>

                It took her a moment. Then – “Oh,” she whispered.

                His eyes were still closed. She could hear his heartbeat, small and fast, against her arm. “I want to,” he murmured. “Just – don’t laugh at me.”

                “I won’t.”

                “You’re sure?”

                “I’m sure.”

                She flipped until she was leaning over him, her hands braced on his back and hair pouring down over him in a purple waterfall. “Relax,” she whispered, unzipping the back of his jumpsuit and keeping her attention on his reactions. Then she pulled her fingers down his back, kneading his fur in a steady motion, carefully avoiding the bits of metal and scar tissue she could feel or using a gentler motion on them. “Relax,” she whispered again, and when he pushed his head back, pure contented pleasure warring with his anxiety, she nudged her head into the crook of his neck, rubbing her nose against the tight tendons and into the pit of his shoulderblade, leaving small kisses behind.

                “G-Gamora-“

                “Do you need me to stop?” she murmured quietly.

                Rocket hesitated, and so she paused where she was – but then he gazed down at her, eyes softening into a vulnerability she was starting to realize was a secret he only shared with _her._ “No. I – Keep going.”

                Gamora opened her mouth and gently nipped at the shoulderblade as she pulled the jumpsuit down, one of her hands wandering down over his stomach as she threw the clothing to the side. But instead of going all the way down, she just stroked her fingers through the fur there, watching his reactions, the way he arched his back. She could feel his erection pressing against her stomach, a firm presence that she’d never even _thought_ about before – no, that was a lie, she’d thought about it –

                Rocket covered his face in embarrassment. <I shoulda kept it on->

                <Hush. You’re very handsome. I like the fuzz.> She gently tugged his paws away, nuzzling his face, and teasingly, deliberately, sliding her stomach upwards and over him.

                <God, _fuck -_ > His mouth had stopped working – even the words falling from his head to hers were scrambled and incoherent, mixed in with pleasure and desperation.

                That was encouraging. She lowered her mouth, peppering kisses over his chest and stomach until she was staring down at his cock. It was bigger than she’d thought it would be; she’d somehow imagined it to be a little bit more proportionate, but instead it was a solid five inches, disproportionate to the rest of his body.

                <Don’t look at me like that,> Rocket grumbled, this time good-naturedly. <It’s smaller when I don’t have a hot woman rubbing her boobs on it.>

                That was reasonable. And big for Rocket wasn’t massive for _her._ She lowered her mouth to him, giving it an exploratory lick. There wasn’t much in the way of fur on the shaft itself, and when she pressed her tongue to it, Rocket hissed, claws digging into the bed and piercing through the sheets. She closed her lips to the edge in a kiss, glancing up at him from under her eyelashes.

                “G-Gamora,” he gasped out loud, his hips rolling up and over her lips. She wrapped his hand around him, suckling on the tip, before pulling her hand away and letting her mouth sink down to the base, swallowing him whole. His claws found their way to her head, tugging on her scalp with a slight tinge of pain, but she didn’t mind – it sent a line of fire straight to her stomach and between her legs.

                He didn’t last long, not that she’d expected him to, and suddenly her mouth was filled with his seed. She swallowed it down, the salty taste filling her throat, and glanced up at his face, trying not to smirk. There was more of it than she thought was possible, though, more than she could possibly swallow, and it began to run down her chin.

“Good look for you,” he rasped, and she resisted the urge to smack him. He wasn’t wrong. There was something deeply erotic about the fact that she was on all fours in front of him, his cum dripping down her chin and onto her chest, warm and thick –

                “ _Rocket! Gamora!”_

Gamora started upwards, swallowing the last of it and realizing a little too late – thankfully – that Peter was just on the intercom. He couldn’t _see_ her. Thank god. “Y-yes?”

                Rocket didn’t say anything, paws pressed to his mouth.

                “ _Oh, good, somebody’s responding. We’re hitting turbulence trying to get to Sarra. I need –“_ He sighed. “ _I need your help.”_

“With what?”

                Peter quieted down. “ _Co-piloting,_ ” he mumbled.

                A wheezing laugh echoed through Gamora’s head. Small mercies – Rocket hadn’t started laughing outwardly, although with how hard he was clamping his paws to his mouth, it was a close one. “And you couldn’t ask Rocket?” she said sweetly.

                “ _He’s not responding. Either he’s asleep or he’s not in his room.”_

Gamora tried not to look at Rocket. If she did, _she_ would burst into helpless laughter. “I’ll make sure to wake him up-“

                _“God, no, just let him sleep. I just need an extra pair of hands.”_

“Funny. I thought you were complimenting my piloting.”

                “ _I am! I’m just – I – Woman, stop torturing me.”_

“Stop making it so easy,” she retorted glibly. So glibly that she could almost forget that she had Rocket’s cum all over her face.

                “ _Just. Get up here,_ ” Peter grumbled. He hung up.

                Rocket burst into laughter, tears forming at the corner of his eyes as he wheezed, trying to catch his breath.

                “Stop it,” Gamora said, trying not to grin. “It’s not _his_ fault. He didn’t _know._ ”

                “That just makes it _funnier!_ ”

                “I – Well – Yes,” she admitted, then wiped her face off on the blankets, trying to hide her grin. “Be _nice_ to him. The boy hasn’t gotten laid in at _least_ a week and the testosterone is probably backing up into his brain.”

                “Hey, I technically still haven’t gotten laid and my totterstone is _just fine,_ thank you-“

                Gamora leaned over him with a grin, and Rocket shut up with a gulp and a very distinct blush. “Behave,” she warned. “Or no more fun for you.”

                “Yes, ma’am,” he said, looking a bit like a deer in sexy, sexy headlights.

                “Good boy,” she murmured, then got to her feet, tying her hair back and trying to calm the butterflies in her stomach and thighs. She had stuff to do. She could deal with her sex drive later. She’d almost forgotten she _had_ one.

                “Do I have to get up too?” Rocket whined.

                “You don’t _have_ to,” she said cheerily. “But do you really want to explain to Drax why you’re in my room?”

                “…No,” he grouched. “There goes the afterglow.”


	13. Brave New World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW for non-consensual/accidental drug use. :D

                She was fine, up until the point that her fingers touched the wheel. Copiloting was easy. She’d done it a million times.

                “Everything okay?”

                Well, that was what was so funny. She wasn’t _having_ a flashback. She just felt funny.

                She turned and flashed Peter a smile. “Yep.” She sat down, and focused on the sky. Which, again, was fine.

                Until Sarra came into view, and her world abruptly twitched. She couldn’t describe it better than that. Just – a _twitch._

Unfortunately, her hands twitched with it, and the ship trembled.

                Peter groaned, rubbing his head where he’d smacked it on his chair. “Watch it, Gamora! You can scratch your armpits later. I hate entering atmosphere.”

                “I’m fine.”

                “…You sure? You look pretty sweaty.”

                She tried not to snort at that. “It’s just. Kind of hot in here.” It was, but she couldn’t place _why._ If she could just focus, then she’d be fine.

                The Sarran atmosphere split under their hull – then kept splitting into triangles and triangles and triangles, until they were flying through a kaleidoscope. Gamora stared around in wonder as the colours reflected and refracted, spinning around in a dizzying array of reds and blues and purples and yellows –

                “Gamora?”

                She turned to look at Peter, who was staring at her in concern. “What are you – staring at?”

                She opened her mouth, realizing her lips were dry. “N-nothing.” The triangles from the kaleidoscope were splitting up and coming through the window one at a time in little hops and jumps, marching to music she couldn’t hear. It was hard to take Peter seriously with little cloudy triangles bouncing around his face.

                Peter raised an eyebrow. “Do I have something on my face?”

                “Er –“

                One of the triangles started prodding him, annoyed that he couldn’t see them. Gamora pressed her fingers to her lips with a small smile – and the ship lurched.

                “Gamora, _what the fuck!_ Hold the ship stea-“

                The nose of the Milano keeled down, listing to the right as it began to descend far, far too quickly through the clouds. The brightly coloured triangles started to swarm in, turning into a wave, and Gamora lifted her arms, trying to shield herself from the onslaught. She could feel the little teeth working at her skin, angry at the ship for invading their territory –

                The slap struck her face out of nowhere, and she blinked, staring at the floor and working her jaw until she raised her eyes to Peter in horror. Peter swallowed.

                “Gamora. Look at me.”

                She tried. His face was warping, skin blushing an undulating purple – “…Are we crashing?” she asked with a murmur of horror. The ship wasn’t just lurching because of the triangles. It was keeling downwards.

                “We were. Rocket’s got it.”

                “Rocket-“

                _It’s okay,_ came the voice in her head. She realized it’d been there for a while – she just hadn’t been able to hear it over the chittering of the triangles. _Breathe. Just breathe._

She looked down. The triangles were scattered over the floor, still making little chittering noises, and the colours of the ship were still – _off._ A little too red and purple. “What’s-“

                “Peter, can you get her checked out?” Rocket asked, his calm voice not betraying the concern that Gamora could feel raging in his head. “The ship’s stable from here, we got past the atmosphere re-entry so I can just land it-“

                _The hell did you take?_

 _Nothing,_ Gamora replied, her lips feeling more than a little numb.

“Come on,” Peter murmured, taking her arm and leading her to the infirmary. She wanted to insist she was fine, but she knew she wasn't - not when the strange light was still pulsing behind her eyes.

Before she had even processed it, they were in the infirmary. "This isn't fun anymore," she murmured.

"Okay, open your mouth."

She did so, and sighed as he swabbed the inside of her cheek. Her implants were whining at her.

_Unknown substance causing flare-up of 5-HT2A serotonin receptor, elevated blood pressure-_

_Shut up,_ she snarled at them. _Where did it enter my bloodstream from?_

_Processing-_

She rolled her eyes and glanced up at Peter, who was sliding the swab into the computer.

_Consumed orally._

Orally? But-

"P-Peter, don't-" The molecular makeup of the swab popped up on the screen, with the label underneath. _Organic source - Procyon lotor._

"Procyon lotor? Isn't that-?"

Gamora clutched her hands to her mouth, feeling her entire face light up with horror. It had to be a coincidence. It _had_ to.

Peter fell silent. Then he turned to look at her, eyebrow raised and face looking a little like he'd swallowed an entire bag of lemons. "...Gamora. Gamora, did I just-"

"Um."

"Did I just swab Rocket's-"

She shook her head, trying not to drop dead on the spot.

"Please tell me it's spit," he sighed, eye twitching a little.

There was a beat.

"Kill me now," Gamora whimpered quietly.

_Unidentified substance identified as a level 2 hallucinogenic-_

"That's a _hallucinogenic?_ " she squeaked out loud, and Peter jolted back from the computer with a look of horror.

"Your - implants tell you that?"

"Oh god. Oh god, you're joking."

"What?" Rocket poked his head around the corner.

Peter looked at him, then burst into helpless laughter.

"What's so funny?"

Gamora took a deep breath. _Uh. Rocket. You've never - um - that was your first time - you've never -_ She inhaled. _That was your first blowjob. Right?_

_...Yes?_

_I have some bad news for you._ Gamora glared at Peter. "Stop laughing, you cretin, or I'll shoot you."

"I can't help it!" Peter crowed. "Do you know what I would give for _drugged cum?_ "

"Drugged-?" Rocket's mouth hung open. "Wait, what now?"

Gamora lowered her hands, her face feeling a little like a furnace. "Apparently, um. I don't know _why,_ " she said as delicately as possible, "but it appears your, um. Your." She wiggled her hands in desperation. "Is a low-level hallucinogenic."

There was a beat of silence, as Peter managed to get it together enough to look slightly somber. Then it was broken by another crow of laughter from Peter, and a crash as he fell down onto his chair.

"Do you want me to shoot him?" Gamora sighed.

"Don't worry. I got this." Rocket hoisted his gun off his back- then paused. "Wait, so do i have to put the 'do not operate heavy machinery' label on my dick?"

Gamora tried. She did, really, genuinely. But the snort of laughter came from nowhere, and then she was trying _so hard_ to keep it in -

 

"Don't laugh at me!"

 

"I'm not laughing at you, Rocket, I'm just -" She managed to catch her breath. "I'm the one who nearly crashed a ship because I _swallowed."_

 

Peter clutched dramatically at his face. "I know we're doing the whole, _ooh we're family,_ thing now but - but there are things I don't need to know." Beat. "So are you two -"

 

Gamora raised an eyebrow at Rocket, who just shrugged. She did the same.

 

"Wow. Super duper clear. Although I don't know what else I expected from the ex-evil-henchman and the science experiment."

 

"I am _not-_ " Rocket immediately prickled, then paused with a sigh. "I apparently excrete hallucinogens. I can't even fight you."

 

"Hey, I can think of some really great ways to-"

 

" _I'm going back to piloting,_ " Rocket grumbled - then caught Gamora's gaze as he turned. She saw the cheeky little smile on his grin.

 

 _You're getting way too much entertainment out of this, aren't you?_ Gamora sighed.

 

 _I can't help it! Besides. Now I_ know _I rock your world._

 

Gamora buried her face in her hands again.

 

She was _never_ going to live this one down.


End file.
